


Hanging On

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When things are difficult, when things are bad, when things are downright<i> bleak,</i> you just have to hang in there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hanging On

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: lena7142 actually came up with this idea and outlined several of the best scenes. She didn’t have the desire to flesh it out, so I begged her to let me play with it, and this is what happened. Beta by postfallen.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: There’s a kind of gruesome murder scene.

The ODS is supposedly the last of the old school spies. That’s the party line, at any rate, and Michael’s more than happy to keep it. He likes the way it sounds, and he likes the notion of a special unit that picks and develops their own mission from beginning to end -- the way spywork is supposed to be.

 

That’s not _exactly_ the way it works, though. The ODS has more discretion than most when it comes to picking missions -- and even when they don’t, Michael tends to bend the rules until he gets to do what he wants anyway. But really, that’s just because the ODS doesn’t pick the missions at all. The missions pick them, based on contacts, capabilities, and general demand.

 

The nation’s first line of defense. Designed to go where others can’t and do what others won’t.

 

So the fact that this mission isn’t easy -- the fact that South Africa is a place where Michael has more enemies than friends -- isn’t as important as most people might think. Sure, they don’t have much lead time. And yes, Michael’s burned more than his share of bridges in the area.

 

But someone has to do this job; Michael knows it’s the ODS.

 

He’ll have to figure out the rest later.

 

“We have intel that one of the major crime bosses is expanding his operation,” Michael explains, pointing to a section of the country. “This is his current area, but he’s starting to make sales over here.”

 

Rick flips through the information packet. “Who is this guy again?”

 

“Kopano Viljoen,” Michael supplies. “He’s been on our radar since the 90s. I ran into him about seven years ago when I was working another op in the area. He’s expanded his operation a lot since then.”

 

Viljoen had been small potatoes, then. Michael had had his sights set higher, and had more or less given Viljoen a pass. He wouldn’t admit it, but this is a bit of unfinished business.

 

“You mean, he started hocking illegal drugs laced with poison to American tourists, asking ridiculously high prices before getting them killed,” Casey reports. “Bastard ran pretty quick; we never had enough to go after him.”

 

“Until now,” Michael clarifies. “With this latest expansion, he’s made contact with one of our established assets in the area. We’ve already got scores of evidence coming in.”

 

Billy grins. “So we just need to swoop in, tie it together, and present Viljoen as a gift to the South African authorities.”

 

“That’s the plan, anyway,” Michael says. “It’ll be tricky, though. If we show up and start poking around, Viljoen will be suspicious.”

 

“Do we have a cover?” Rick asks.

 

“Still working on it, but Thomas thinks two of us can get into his operation as suppliers,” Michael explains.

 

Rick makes a face. “And the other two?”

 

“Running surveillance and maintaining communications between the field and Langley,” Michael says.

 

“Also known as backup,” Casey reiterates.

 

Rick looks a little disappointed. “Do we know who’s doing what yet?”

 

“Hard to say for sure,” Michael says. “But they’re going to want people who look established.”

 

“Meaning, no brown-nosing do gooders,” Casey clarifies. “You’ll be sitting this one out.”

 

Rick balks.

 

Michael shrugs, only vaguely apologetic. “Our asset works with Americans, so Billy’s out, too.”

 

Rick looks like he’s ready to sulk. “So we’ll just be where? In the hotel?”

 

Michael looks to Casey, then to Billy. Casey smirks.

 

Billy sits up straighter. “Ah,” he says. “Well, we do have a lovely safe house nearby. It’s quite posh, actually.” He nods earnestly. “You’ll love it!”

 

-o-

__

_Posh_ is perhaps the worst example of exaggeration Billy has used in years. True, he is prone to embellishment, but attributing any positive characteristics to their South African safehouse is a bit ridiculous.

 

Even for him.

 

Still, he thinks there’s perhaps a certain charm. The building is old and there is a bit of architectural character. The black iron fence might have been quaint once, and he imagines the stoop to the building was once quite stylish when it was built.

 

In the 1960s.

 

The rooms are small, the plaster is cracked. The windows are coated with gunk and the air conditioner no longer functions. There’s something dead behind the fridge, and the door on the bathroom doesn’t close. A few mice scurry across the floor, and there’s fresh water damage that has leaked all over the bed, leaving it moldy and generally unusable.

 

In all, it’s probably one of the worst places he’s stayed.

 

It takes Martinez approximately five minutes before he realizes this. To the lad’s credit, it takes him another three hours, when Michael and Casey have gone to make their first contact, before he finally broaches the subject.

 

“Posh?” he asks, sitting at the laptop he’s set up by stringing an extension cord from the lone outlet to the empty table in the middle of the living space.

 

Billy shrugs sheepishly. “I admit, that was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration,” he ventures.

 

“A bit?” Rick asks. “This place is downright depressing. I mean, I know it’s _safe,_ but does I’ve seen pictures of prisons that are less bleak.”

 

He’s right. Billy’s _been_ in prisons that were less bleak than this, although he has to mentally note that the prisons in Scandinavia are actually nicer than his flat so that is perhaps not the best example.

 

Yet, Rick looks so forlorn that Billy can’t resort to jokes at his expense. Not yet, anyway.

 

Instead, he sighs. “I know how you feel, lad,” he says, nodding around at the barren space. “Spywork brings in the best and brightest with promises of excitement and intrigue. It doesn’t take long to realize that’s rarely the case.”

 

Rick still looks sulky. “I just thought seeing the world would be more...exciting.”

 

Billy nods in commiseration. “Imagine my surprise when I joined MI6. I spent the whole first year in an office in the basement. There was no window and I shared it with a radiator that put out heat all year round. Once, during a cold streak in London, I nearly died of heat exhaustion. And it was the middle of the winter!”

 

Rick’s shoulders fall. “And you didn’t quit?”

 

“No,” Billy says. “Because I knew there were brighter -- and less hot times ahead.”

 

“I’ve been here for almost a year and I’m still stuck in a crappy safehouse playing backup,” Rick says miserably.

 

Billy tilts his head, nodding. “You know, I have just the thing for this,” he says.

 

Rick looks hopeful as Billy gets up. “Yeah?”

 

“Yes,” Billy says, going over to his bags. He has to scat a mouse away as he unzips it, riffling through the balled up clothes until he finds it. “I was afraid our conditions here would be less than satisfactory, so I brought a little piece of home that has helped me through the worst of times.”

 

Rick is watching him intently as Billy pulls the item out. He removes the rubber band, unrolling the aged paper and holding it aloft. He pauses, digging in his pocket to find three safety pins before holding the poster against the wall and hastily tacking it into place.

 

Stepping back, he nods, grinning in satisfaction at his work.

 

Rick, however, is less impressed. “What’s that?”

 

Billy is appalled. “That,” he says gesturing to the poster. “Is the one souvenir I managed to take with me from my office at MI6. This poster has been with me through every trial in my professional life and it has _never_ let me down.”

 

Rick looks at Billy, then looks at the poster. “It’s a poster of a kitten in a tree,” he says blankly, looking at Billy again.

 

“A very cute kitten hanging precariously from a tree!” Billy says, jabbing with passion at the image. “And you’re missing the very important message!”

 

“Hang in there?” Rick reads.

 

“Damn right!” Billy says. “When things are difficult, when things are bad, when things are downright _bleak,_ you just have to hang in there.”

 

Rick hesitates. “For what?”

 

Billy is incredulous. “For brighter times! For rescue! For change!”

 

Rick’s nose scrunches up. “It’s a stupid poster.”

 

“It’s an inspirational poster!”

 

Rick shakes his head, looking back at the computer.

 

Billy clucks his tongue. “That poster changes lives,” he says, looking at the furry kitten and its determined expression. “Just wait; you’ll see.”

 

-o-

 

There are many reasons Michael is divorced, including the fact that he is paranoid, dishonest, emotionally inept and generally controlling. But if all that weren’t enough, Fay would have had grounds to kick him to the curb because he _never_ left a mission unfinished.

 

This seems like a good thing -- in general, commitment is viewed positively -- but for Michael, it’s often an obsessive thing. And in the CIA, sometimes he’s just one part of the puzzle. Sometimes he’s gathering intel; sometimes he’s developing assets. It’s only very rarely, actually, that he’s the one bringing the mission to a close. Missions take years to come to fruition most of the time, and the chances that Michael will be the one to orchestrate every step of the process is slim to none.

 

Michael knows this. He’s accepted it.

 

But that doesn’t mean he lets it happen without a little help. Sure, he’ll hand off jurisdiction. Yes, he’ll read in other teams as necessary. But even when the mission isn’t his to control, he keeps tabs on it. He spent countless nights during his marriage with Fay tracking mission he had nothing to do with just to make sure that someone else didn’t screw his mission up. When the DOJ had failed to prosecute LaRouche, Michael had decided to ensure that someone else did.

 

Because Michael doesn’t leave missions with loose ends. It’s bad business; it’s bad security; it’s unprofessional.

 

And it makes him sort of nuts.

 

So he knows he’s going to see this one through. Better still, he’ll be there to see Viljoen arrested, which means that he’ll get to put this one to rest sooner rather than later. But...

 

“Something’s wrong,” Casey mutters to him. 

 

Michael’s asset -- Thomas -- has graciously worked them into his work crew, which Michael knows is a slam dunk. Thomas is established and he’s reputable, which means he’s got the credibility to pull it off. 

 

That always sounds better in theory, though. In application, he and Casey are both sitting in the truck, dressed as delivery men, doing nothing. It’s not actually nothing -- they’re watching as the asset makes a transfer, taking discreet shots with a hidden camera in Michael’s pen to send to South African authorities when they’re done -- but it still feels like _nothing._

 

“It’s going perfectly,” Michael replies, tilting his pen to get a clearer shot of Viljoen’s face. The man turns, looking back toward them, eyes scanning the surroundings suspiciously.

 

“I know,” Casey says. 

 

Michael moves his pen casually, lifting it to tap on the dash while he clicks some shots of the men helping Viljoen transfer the product. “So we should be finished here in no time,” he says. “We’ll stop back at the safehouse, have Martinez upload the photos to the Agency, and then we can all sit back and watch the news while this thing wraps up. It’s all what we planned.”

 

“Exactly,” Casey tells him. “When has anything ever gone the way we planned?”

 

The answer: never. In truth, Michael’s senses are in overload, and while he’s snapping photos, he’s scouting everything. He knows how many exits there are; he knows how many goons Viljoen brought with him. He knows the number of cars, the probable number of guns, and in his mind, he has a strong sense of the best strategic positions in case a firefight should break out. He knows their delivery truck is strong but not bullet proof and it is less than ideal for a getaway.

 

Everything tells him that things are perfect.

 

Which is why his gut wants to get the hell out.

 

But Michael never leaves a mission unfinished -- not when he has any choice in the matter.

 

He shakes his head. “I can’t pull the plug on the perfect op,” he says. “We’ll hang tight.”

 

Casey sighs. “Fine,” he says. “But not only do I think we’re taking a risk, it’s also boring.”

 

Michael turns the camera, smirking as he clicked a picture of Casey’s annoyed face. “You make so many sacrifices,” he jibes. “You’re a true patriot.”

 

Casey sits back against the seat, sulking. “You’re starting to make me think that Collins and Martinez are the lucky ones,” he mutters.

 

Michael just grins, turning the pen back to keep taking photos.

 

-o-

 

All talk of unflagging optimism aside, Billy has to admit, this isn’t the most thrilling of missions. Sure, there is intrigue and danger -- for Michael and Casey. And really, after so many years in the spy game it takes a bit more action to get Billy’s heart pumping.

 

That is not, however, necessarily a bad thing. He’s had more than enough action for one lifetime, and there are times he still thinks he could be happier away from the spy game, settled down and getting married, writing bad poetry and playing his guitar.

 

Such things are not in the cards for him, however. So if there’s something nice about busy missions, it’s that he’s too busy trying not to die to think about what might have been. Otherwise he’s faced with the daunting reminder that he’s been exiled from his homeland, labeled a traitor by people who used to be his friends, and currently lives a life of solitude and anonymity at the benevolence of another government. He lives in a motel room, after all, and spends most of his nights reading on his couch until he falls asleep.

 

Still, when he looks at the poster, aged and faded as it is, he still finds it reassuring. _Hang in there,_ because it gets better. _Hang in there,_ because there are still things worth fighting for. _Hang in there,_ because falling is so much worse -- and Billy would know.

 

He grins, winking at the kitten. “Thanks for the reminder, mate.”

 

“Did you say something?” Rick’s voice comes from the other room. The lad has just retired there after his latest shift on watch. It’s Billy’s turn to man the main room, to watch the window and listen for signs of possible danger about their current residence.

 

So far, however, the greatest danger seems to be the possibility of lead poisoning from the peeling paint or horrible diseases from the mice.

 

“Nothing of importance,” Billy calls back, moving the curtain aside to check the street fully again. “Get your rest, laddie. You’re going to need it -- you have the first shift tonight!”

 

There’s no response, which is to be expected. Despite Billy’s best effort, Rick has been dour. He actually glared at Billy’s poster, which Billy thinks is a sign of an impending apocalypse. No one, especially not good-hearted youths such as Martinez, should glare at a kitten. Attached cliches aside.

 

A moment lapses, then another. Billy watches the street, gauging the cars that park and the people that come and go. There’s a rather comical scene involving two teenage boys who seem to be trying to impress one of the shopgirls, and he has the desire to thrash the young man picking pockets on the street corner. That’s neither here nor there, though. It’s not his problem, even if it is something he could fix.

 

Then he sees the man at the cafe. He’s seen him before, watched him since he arrived nearly twenty minutes ago. Only he has nothing more than a cup of coffee -- which hasn’t been touched at all. He’s not looking at the menu; he doesn’t check his watch.

 

Instead he’s staring.

 

At first, Billy thinks it’s just general staring, of the mindless variety.

 

But then his skin prickles.

 

Because he’s staring at Billy.

 

Heart skipping a beat, Billy avoids any sudden movements. Michael is the paranoid bastard of the bunch, but spies don’t stay alive without a healthy dose of skepticism. Sometimes assuming the worst is the difference between life and death. 

 

Maybe the man is just staring by coincidence. Maybe he’s as perplexed by Billy as Billy is of him.

 

Or maybe he’s looking to break into a CIA safehouse.

 

Mentally, Billy goes over the safety protocol. There’s an alarm in place on all entrances; if anyone is close, Billy would know. He needs to wake Martinez, do a more complete sweep of the street, ascertain other possible threats, and then respond accordingly.

 

Moving, Billy lets the curtain fall back into place, moving past the poster toward the bedroom. “I’m afraid we may have to cut the nap short--”

 

And then there’s a crash. Loud and violent, coming from the bedroom.

 

Billy’s running, and he makes it to the door to the bedroom in time to hear the resounding bang of a gunshot. There’s a flash of movement at the window and a dark figure disappears, and Billy comes to a stop as Rick crumples to the floor, blood welling up from a wound in his chest.

 

Billy’s instincts are all over the place. His teammate is hurt and bleeding -- first aid is a priority -- but if there’s a gunshot, that means they’ve been compromised, that the safehouse has been breached. He turns, ready to launch a full-on offensive when he’s hit from behind.

 

The force of the blow catches him in the back of his shoulders and it’s enough to send him to his knees. Everything goes dim for a moment, and he doesn’t have time to defend himself before he’s kicked in the kidneys.

 

He hits the ground with an oof, face scraping hard against the floor as his ears ring. Someone reaches down, presumably to turn him over, and Billy stops thinking and reacts.

 

Springing up, he charges into the figure, sending them both sprawling to the floor. He gets to his feet quickly, catching the other man with two quick punches before he has a chance to fully regain his footing. He’s about to land a third punch when someone approaches him from behind.

 

Billy spins, throwing a desperate haymaker that connects viciously. There’s a crack, and the man goes down bonelessly, gun skittering away. There’s no time to celebrate because the first attacker is on him, tackling him to the floor again. This time, the air leaves Billy’s lungs as the man lands on top of him, and he gets off a few good hits before Billy manages to buck enough to dislodge him. 

 

Scrambling, he makes it to his feet, deflecting a kick before using his attacker’s momentum to send him crashing through the pathetic table. He moves forward to take advantage, so set on his goal that he doesn’t see the new figure behind him until it’s too late.

 

He braces for an impact, and when the thick rope wraps around his neck he’s taken by surprise. He flails, elbowing the new attacker. There’s give in the noose and Billy turns, ready to strike when the first man kicks out his knees.

 

They’re not hard kicks, and fighting from his knees is something Billy’s done successfully before But the downward motion is cut off abruptly when the noose tightens, and Billy realizes in horror what’s happening.

 

The pain is instantaneous, and the loss of oxygen is unexpected. His body’s autonomatic defense system kicks in, and he scrabbles at his throat, feeling the thick rope as it cuts viciously into his skin. He tries to find purchase, to buy himself a little extra breathing room, and he almost has it when he sees the other end of the rope thrown high. It catches on the exposed pipe along the ceiling, and Billy’s eyes widen the second before one of the men catches the rope and pulls.

 

It yanks him up, straining his neck and leaving him grappling in futility at his neck. He tries to find his footing, and almost has something when the rope is pulled again, dimming Billy’s vision with an overwhelming spike of pain.

 

It’s all getting away from him. He’s not even sure what happened -- how they managed to get back the trip wire -- if Rick’s still alive -- if Michael and Casey...

 

If he could just breathe...

 

The world tunnels; his fingers are wooden and his limbs are like lead. His lungs are burning and his mind is racing even as everything dims. He can’t help himself; he can’t help Rick. All he can do is hang there and die, looking at that stupid poster.

__

_Hang in there._

__

His arms go limp, his body sagging. The horror starts to dissipate as he surrenders to the inevitable. He looks at the kitten, sees its plaintive expression. It’s not trying very hard; Billy knows how it feels.

__

_Hang in there._

__

Billy’s last thought, as the world goes horribly black, is that it is such an unfortunate and far too ironic turn of phrase.

 

-o-

 

The safehouse isn’t much, but after a day out in the field, Michael has to admit, it feels good to drop his defenses. Being a paranoid bastard isn’t as easy as it looks, no matter what Fay might think.

 

So when he sees the crappy apartment building, Michael’s nothing short of relieved -- until he gets inside.

 

There’s nothing wrong necessarily -- there’s still the same level of background noise, a baby crying, a couple screaming, a dog barking -- but something still sets his senses off. His paranoia is exhausting, but it’s pretty hard to turn off, even when he wants to.

 

Next to him, Casey stiffens no more than a second later. He glances at Michael. “You feel it, too?”

 

Michael nods his head, his heart rate starting to pick up and his stomach twisting with an uncertain tilt. Unconsciously, he feels for the gun he has tucked in the back of his pants. “Might be nothing.”

 

Casey grimaces, starting his way up the stairs. “Two spies, the same bad feeling,” he mutters, fanning out at the top of the second story landing. “Seems like something.”

 

Michael doesn’t disagree, but there’s no point in saying it. Casey’s gone left; Michael will go right and they both pause, glancing down the hallway, looking for signs of movement or activity.

 

Nothing.

 

The safehouse is a single apartment -- 2A, to be exact -- but the CIA owns both units down this second story hall. They’d swept the second just as much as the first, and there’d been no sign of squatters.

 

Across the way, Casey kneels, his face settling grimly. “Sensor is down.”

 

Swallowing, Michael looks down by his own feet and sees that the second sensor -- the one he’d placed no more than a week ago, had been visibly ripped apart and was left useless on the ground.

 

And Michael’s heart sinks. Casey’s already got his hands up and Michael pulls his gun. They don’t need to talk; they already know. This many years in the field together, Casey knows what Michael’s plan is and Michael knows what Casey’s assets are.

 

The floor beneath them creaks, but there’s no other noise as they approach. The silence feels like a vacuum, and it steals Michael’s breath even as his blood starts rushing in his ears. His palms are sweaty as he adjusts his grip on the gun, and Casey moves to the far side of the door while Michael positions himself next to the handle.

 

He listens -- silence -- then looks at Casey, who just nods.

 

Tentative, Michael shifts his gun to one hand, using his left to reach out and try the knob. 

 

He moves easily, and Michael feels his stomach drop and his fingers go cold. This is bad.

 

Across from him, Casey tenses.

 

This is very bad.

 

For a moment, Michael thinks he could stay here forever. Maybe he doesn’t have to open the door; maybe he doesn’t have to know for once. Because none of the options are good. The safehouse has clearly been compromised, and if the door’s still unlocked that means that Billy and Rick left it open -- either when they left...

 

Or because they couldn’t.

 

Michael takes another breath, and eschews the doubt. The fear is growing in his stomach, but Michael’s made a career of knowing. He can’t stop now.

 

For the sake of his men, he won’t.

 

Resolved, he turns the knob, pushing the door open. The hinges squeak and Michael holds his gun aloft as he turns sharply and moves in.

 

He leads with his gun, using it to scan the room. Kitchen -- clear. Behind the door -- clear.

 

Living room--

 

Michael’s heart stops.

 

Because there’s no sign of movement.

 

There’s just Billy, lying half on the ground. The rest of his body is held partially aloft by the rope tied around his neck, anchored to one of the heating ducts along the ceiling. His body is limp; his face is purple.

 

The safehouse isn’t just compromised, it’s been hit. Billy’s been hit. Rick’s been--

 

His heart stutters again, rushing forward. He shoves the gun back into his pants, pulling out his pocketknife instead. “I’ve got him,” he says hastily, pulse hammering as he scoops Billy’s inert form closer, taking the pressure off his neck while he saws through the rope with his other hand. “Check for Rick.”

 

Casey doesn’t say anything, and Michael doesn’t have time to gauge how he’s feeling. They just walked in to see Billy strung up and purple, and the impression on Michael is palpable -- he can only imagine how it’s affecting Casey. But he knows Casey; he knows whatever fear or anger he’s feeling will be channeled to rage, will be used to _fix this._

 

Billy’s body shifts limply in his grasp and he nearly drops the man, cursing as his knife slips, looking to gain traction as he starts sawing again.

 

Assuming this is fixable.

 

Because the safehouse is compromised, which means the mission is compromised. Maybe it was the asset; maybe it was the mark; maybe it was some other tail they picked up. Whatever the case, they’re screwed. Michael doesn’t even know what to do next, he just knows he needs to fix what he can--

 

Starting with Billy.

 

The rope starts to fray and Michael grits his teeth, moving his hand faster, harder, watching the fibers give way.

 

“Rick’s down!” Casey yells from the other room. 

 

Michael grunts, stifling another curse. “How bad?”

 

“Shot to the chest, looks to be fairly close range,” Casey’s voice comes back. “He’s still got a pulse, though.”

 

Michael’s chest tightens and his head feels light. “Can you--”

 

“Already starting first aid,” Casey replies. “Back window is busted.”

 

Michael is sweating, his shirt drenched with the exertion when the rope finally gives way. It’s such a shock that he nearly drops Billy again, and they both flop to the ground, Billy’s head connecting hard with the floor. Michael winces, hurriedly loosening the noose and pulling it off over Billy’s discolored face.

 

“How’s Martinez?” Michael asks, throwing the rope aside.

 

“We’re going to need help,” Casey reports back. He hesitates. “Billy?”

 

Grimacing, Michael looks at Billy. His face is still a mottled mess of dark hues and the Scot’s throat is covered with red scrapes and abrasions. Clenching his jaw, he reaches for Billy’s wrist instead, preparing himself for the worst.

 

He’s almost surprised when he feels the thready heartbeat. “Alive,” he says, almost croaking the words.

 

“This is a pretty sloppy hit, Michael,” Casey reports back. “You think we can risk a hospital?”

 

“No choice,” Michael replies, ripping open Billy’s shirt and splaying a hand over his chest, trying to feel for any respirations. “Besides, this wasn’t a hit.”

 

Casey grunts. “What would you call it then?”

 

“You said it yourself, this is a pretty damn sloppy hit. Even if they didn’t get Billy and Rick on the first try, there’d be no reason not to finish the job,” Michael replies, bending over and putting his ear to Billy’s chest. Billy’s lungs seem to be working -- but only just. He sits back up, sitting back on his heels as he looks at Billy’s distorted features again. “No, they wanted us to come back to this. They wanted us to see what they were capable of.”

 

He closes his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the sting of tears desperate to be assuaged. He can still see Billy, half pulled off the ground; he thinks of Rick, shot almost at point blank in a bedroom.

 

He opens his eyes and looks up, Billy’s stupid poster with the stupid kitten: hang in there. It’s the same poster Billy has brought on their particularly bleak missions, the one he has hanging up on his refrigerator. Of course Billy would bring it here.

 

Of all the stupid and ironic things.

 

He wets his lips. “It’s a message.”

 

“Oh?” Casey calls back. It’s a question, but he doesn’t sound curious. He sounds like he’s ready to kill someone, and if Michael knew who to blame, he’d let Casey go, no questions asked.

 

Michael sets his face grimly, looking at the furball still holding on with all his might. “One we’re going to answer,” he says, looking down at Billy again. “You think you can get Rick to the hospital?”

 

“Sure,” Casey says, his voice tight. “At the rate he’s losing blood, that’s probably the better option. But what about Billy?”

 

“Leave that to me,” he says, getting to his feet and moving around to Billy’s shoulders. “Just leave that to me.”

 

-o-

 

When Billy was seven, he fell out of a tree and broke his arm. His mother had been distraught, coddling him as he wailed, and his father had thrown him in the back seat and shook his head as they drove to the hospital.

 

“What happened this time?” his father growled, glancing at him through the mirror.

 

Billy was curled up miserably on the seat, clutching his broken arm to his chest with tears running down his face. “I fell,” he managed to explain.

 

His father grunted, looking back out at the road. “Next time, hang in there a bit longer, lad,” he said. “Because I don’t intend to spend my life picking you up.”

 

His father was a son of a bitch, but he hadn’t lied about that. No one picked him up when he crashed his bike the next year; no one was there to help him when he got beaten up a few years following. And when his father died shortly thereafter, Billy stopped turning around to hope that anyone might be there, watching him at all.

 

He hung in there through school, eeking out the grades to get to university. He made it through college, through MI6 training, through his early years of paperwork and lost offices where no one even knew his name.

 

He held on; he didn’t let go.

 

Even when his country kicked him out, Billy still held fast until he found his footing again in a new land, on a new time.

__

_Hang in there._

__

Words to live by.

 

In the black, pain rising on all sides, Billy wonders if they’re words to die by. Gravity seems to be pulling him downward, deeper into nothingness, and it’s tempting to let go. 

 

But he’s still in the backseat of the car, breathing through snot and whimpering as they hit potholes at full speed.

__

_Next time, hang in there a bit longer, lad._

__

And Billy does.

 

-o-

 

When they’d been married, Fay had liked to rail about his priorities. She often accused Michael of putting his job above her, of putting his team above her, of putting _everything_ above her.

 

On the one hand, she had a point. Michael did tend to do his job even at the expense of their marriage. But she’s also been wrong. Fay had thought Michael didn’t love her enough. Michael loved her more than any of those things -- but Michael had to give deference to things in their proper order. He couldn’t have a happy marriage if his team was in danger or if national secrets were at risk. He couldn’t go to bed each night and love his wife properly if he knew there were terrorists, drug dealers and other sundry criminals plotting against American interests.

 

It was a question of priorities, not based on inherent value but pressing need.

 

And that didn’t just apply to Fay. It applied to everything. It applies right now.

 

Michael wants to just call an ambulance and get Billy and Rick the help they need. While that is in actuality his highest priority, he can’t do it yet. Not until everything is perfectly aligned. If he indulges that priority, he’ll sacrifice the mission and probably their covers, which could just lead to another attack -- which could lead to more costs for his team. Too much has been compromised already in this mission; he has to make sure everything else is done right.

 

No matter how hard it is.

 

Garnering his resolve, he rolls Billy on his side, checking the Scot’s shallow and irregular breathing one more time. The purple in his face is starting to fade a little, but his lips are still noticeably blue. He squeezes Billy shoulder, and with every ounce of strength he has, gets up and leaves his side.

 

Jogging, he makes his way to the bedroom where he finds Casey tightening another bandage over Rick’s prone body -- the one under it already stained red. It’s an unsettling tableau -- Rick’s complexion is too pale and there’s blood everywhere -- but Michael refuses to acknowledge it.

 

“I’m going to bring the car around to the back entrance by the fire escape,” he says.

 

Casey ties of the bandage, yanking it down for extra pressure while gritting his teeth. “I’ll meet you out back, then,” he says.

 

Michael nods, skirting Rick as he makes his way to the window. 

 

“You sure about this?” Casey asks after him.

 

Michael glances back as he ducks through the damage glass. “No choice.”

 

Casey’s face is pinched as he looks back down at Rick, splayed on the floor.

 

Michael doesn’t have time to dwell, though, and he takes the rungs of the fire escape as fast as he can, jumping down the last distance and landing heavily on his feet. They parked on the main street, down a ways, so he starts in a brisk jog until he gets to the street. He abruptly slows, eyes darting around, looking for any sign of suspicious behavior as he moves innocuously through the street. 

 

Everyone looks ominous, but there’s nothing Michael can pinpoint. Still, by the time he gets to the nondescript rental, the hair on the back of his neck is raised and his heart is thumping. There’s no time to indulge it, though. Priorities, he reminds himself.

 

Rick’s bleeding; Billy’s still blue. The mission.

 

Priorities.

 

The drive is short, and when Michael pulls up alongside the fire escape Casey is already there, Rick hoisted over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Leaving the engine on, Michael puts it in park, hurrying out to open the back door as Casey gently lowers Rick down. Michael helps, catching the kid’s head and guiding him carefully into the back. Together, they lay Rick across the seat before closing the door.

 

Casey looks Michael in the eyes. “You sure about this?”

 

“Ditch Rick’s wallet before you get there and use your own backup ID. I’ll bring Rick’s with me when I get there with Billy,” Michael says.

 

“You think that’s going to help stop whoever did this?” Casey asks.

 

“No,” Michael says, already reaching to climb back up the fire escape. “But I think it’ll keep the authorities off our asses, which is something anyway.”

 

Casey’s expression is grim. “It’s not much.”

 

Michael grunts, reaching the first platform. “What do you want me to say, Malick?” Michael huffs, staring up the second section. “Hang in there?”

 

Casey makes a face and shakes his head, getting in the car. “Since that’s worked so well for us so far.”

 

At the second floor, Michael hears the car speed away, and he ducks back in the window, pulling his phone from his pocket as he runs back to the living room.

 

Billy’s still there, rolled on his side where Michael left him, and when emergency services finally picks up on the other end of the line, Michael is just going to his knees. “Yeah,” he says. “English?”

__

_“Yes, sir, what is your emergency?”_

__

Michael looks down at Billy, putting his fingers on the Scot’s wrist to feel the thready pulse. “I went to check on my friend and, well--”

 

He hesitates, looking at Billy’s damaged throat, his still dusky features.

 

Taking a breath, Michael reminds himself of his priorities. “--and I found him hanging.”

__

_“From a rope, sir?”_

__

“Yeah,” Michael says, swallowing as he silently apologizes to Billy. “He’s been sort of depressed lately...I think it was a suicide attempt.”

 

Because suicide attempts don’t warrant police investigations. Because suicide attempts don’t attract official government intervention.

__

_“What is your address, sir?”_

__

Michael swallows guiltily as he relays the number. “Second floor. Apartment 2B.”

 

Even if he pulls this off as a suicide, he doesn’t want to give any reason for police to look at an official CIA safehouse. There’s still CIA equipment in there, and Michael doesn’t have time to clean that up -- Billy doesn’t have time.

 

The dispatcher says something else, but Michael closes his phone and shoves it in his pocket. He only has minutes to pull this off, so he has to do it right. Hastily, he pulls Billy’s wallet out, tucking it in his own back pocket. Next, he collects the noose, quickly undoing the anchor for the part still strung up over the ceiling. 

 

When he has those items, he goes back to Billy, gently rolling the Scot onto his back and lifting him under the armpits. It’s not graceful, but it’s efficient as Michael turns them around, starting to pull Billy back toward the front door.

 

Billy’s weight is ungainly, his feet dragging across the floor. At the door, Michael has to pause, shifting so he can hold Billy and turn the knob. He pushes the door open with his back, looking down the length of hallway as he pulls Billy’s feet clear of the threshold, quickly using one hand to shut the door behind him. He should lock it, but at this point, Michael doesn’t see how that’ll do much good or harm.

 

It’s a short distance across the hall, but Michael’s drenched with sweat. He has to lay Billy on the ground to find his keys, half kicking the door open as he reaches down to scoop Billy up again. The Scot makes no sound except a faint whine each time he takes a stunted breath.

 

He doesn’t bother to close the door, and he only drags Billy far enough inside to make it look believable. Laying Billy down on his side, he quickly throws the noose and the rope to the side before turning back to his friend.

 

It’s a relief; it’s not a perfect setup, but it should work. Rick should be on his way to the hospital; the ambulance will be here soon. Michael has enough cover IDs and the safehouse should be safe from government oversight. He can salvage this. He will.

 

But when he checks Billy’s breathing, there’s nothing.

 

His heart skips a beat, and his stomach feels queasy. Swallowing, he forces himself to remain calm, putting a hand on Billy’s chest while lowering his head to Billy’s mouth. Under his chest, he can still feel the faint thump of Billy’s heart. But there’s no movement in his lungs.

 

Michael sits up and looks down. Billy’s color is still off -- he’s cyanotic -- and it’s not getting better.

 

He curses, rearranging Billy so he’s on his back. Billy’s neck may be damaged, but without oxygen, that doesn’t matter so Michael tilts his head back anyway, pinching his nose before blowing in two breaths.

 

He watches as Billy’s chest rises, but it doesn’t escape his notice that it doesn’t rise very far. Michael’s studied CPR; he’s even had the misfortune of using it a time or two. There’s supposed to be better airflow than that.

 

Muscles taut, Michael tries again, blowing harder this time -- but the movement is the same.

 

It makes sense, probably. Billy was hanged. A rope around the neck with that amount of force could cause all sorts of problems -- to the trachea or the vocal cords, not to mention the vessels and arteries. And even if there was a fracture or deviation, the swelling alone could close off the airway.

 

He blows in another two breaths. “Come on, Billy,” he mutters, finding Billy’s pulse point again. “Hang in there.”

 

Beneath him, Billy’s face is still dark and unmoving. Michael’s eyesight blurs unexpectedly and he leans back down, breathing for Billy again.

 

“Hang in there,” he says, even as he hears sirens in the distance. He’s not sure if he’s talking to Billy or himself anymore; he’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter. “Just _hang in there._ ”

 

-o-

 

When Billy wakes up, it seems like a long time in coming. Somehow, he’s aware that time has passed -- probably too much time -- and he has the distinct impression that he’s missed something important.

 

With his eyes open, he studies the ceiling -- drab tiles with little holes -- and it seems unsettlingly unfamiliar because he’s supposed to be at the safehouse.

 

On the mission.

 

With Rick.

 

His eyes widen and he sucks in a breath--

 

And is assailed with pain. He’s half-choking with it, gagging for a moment before there’s a steady hand on his shoulder, pressing him firmly but gently back toward the bed. “Whoa, careful.”

 

It takes a minute while Billy breathes through his nose, tears burning in his eyes. His neck feels like it’s on fire, so he turns his eyes to the side, just far enough to see Michael perched by his side. He looks haggard, hair mussed and shirt wrinkled. The lines around his eyes are deeper suddenly, and even though he’s trying to smile, there’s fear in his eyes.

 

Fear. Billy knows fear. He can still feel it tickling the back of his brain, building in his chest and making his stomach go cold. 

 

“You with me?” Michael asks, brow creasing with even more concern.

 

Billy tries to get ahold of his emotions, but finds himself shaky. He tries to swallow, but finds it difficult, and as he reaches up to his neck, he remembers--

 

The rope around his neck, the pressure on his throat. The men, the failed sensors, the window, _Rick._

 

Billy looks up again, eyes locking on Michael’s with renewed intensity. When he opens his mouth, though, the sound that comes out is garbled and strained. He cuts himself off with a grimace, swallowing with decided effort before he tries again. “Rick?”

 

This time, the name is clear if barely audible. His voice is nothing more than a wisp, and just the mere act of breathing seems to aggravate it. But he has to know.

 

Michael shifts in his seat, the briefest flicker of uncertainty passing through his eyes. Billy’s the self-professed thespian of the group, but Michael knows how to keep his poker face when he needs to. “We can talk about that later--”

 

Billy shakes his head minutely, locking his jaw against the pain. “Rick,” he mouths again, keeping his gaze unwavering on Michael.

 

Michael sighs, shoulders sagging. “He just got out of surgery,” he admits. “They’ve got him on the critical list right now, but they say it went pretty well in there. Got the bullet out without too much complication. He could be moved up to ‘stable’ in the next few hours.”

 

It’s something of a consolation. He still remembers seeing Rick go down; he still remembers the blood.

 

Reflexively, he swallows again with a pronounced wince. Seeing Rick go down is without a doubt one of the scariest moments of his career. But being strung up by his neck and waking up unable to speak isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Eyes still fixed on Michael, Billy mouths, “Me?”

 

At that, Michael grimaces. “The fact that you’re awake and you remember is a good thing,” he says. “You were pretty cyanotic there for a while. They were worried about brain damage.”

 

Michael’s words are a little flippant, but Billy knows he’s just trying to hide the weight of this situation. If Michael’s here with Billy and not Rick, then the possibility of damage must have been more pronounced than the other man cares to let on.

 

His head feels fuzzy but that’s actually not his most pressing concern. Billy’s hand lifts again, flitting toward his throat. “And this?”

 

Michael’s mouth flattens. “You were lucky -- relatively anyway,” he says. “The rope did some trachial damage but they think it’s a controlled fracture that will heal okay on its own. The ruptured blood vessels will take awhile to mend, but you manage to avoid any crushing injuries.”

 

Billy considers this. “My voice?”

 

“Should be back as soon as the swelling starts to go down,” Michael reports. “Give it a few hours, and it should start to sound better, but you’re going to be sore.”

 

Billy lets out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. It’s bad, but it could be worse he reminds himself. When he opens his eyes again, he feels somewhat calmer -- at the very least, he’s ready to face this mission again. “Who?”

 

Michael’s mouth twitches, eyes narrowing just slightly. “No clue yet,” he says. “We’ve been waiting for you and Martinez to stabilize before we start checking back to see if we can put together what happened.”

 

Glancing around, Billy shifts, propping himself up a little. “Should we go?”

 

Before he gets very far, Michael’s hand is on his shoulder again. “You shouldn’t go anywhere,” he says pointedly.

 

Billy frowns.

 

“The only reason you can swallow at all is because they’ve got you on the good meds to control the pain,” Michael advises him. “Plus, they want to make sure your trachea is healing okay before they let you go.”

 

Billy settles back but he gives Michael an indignant look. “This mission--”

 

“We’ll take care of it,” Michael promises him.

 

“I can’t just lie here!” Billy protests, the airy words sounding pathetic amid the humming machines.

 

Michael glances back toward the door. “Actually, that’s all you can do.”

 

The idea of speaking is suddenly more effort than it’s worth for his pathetic timbre, so Billy settles for a glare instead.

 

Scratching the back of his neck, Michael’s face scrunches up. “You’re sort of on psychiatric watch.”

 

It’s not the answer he’s expecting. Billy can only stare.

 

Michael shrugs. “Casey took Rick in and we only had the one car,” he explains. “I couldn’t compromise the safehouse any worse than it already was so I took you across the hall and said it was a suicide attempt.”

 

Billy can only gape. The fact that he’s been almost choked to death is part of that, certainly, but the shock of Michael’s revelation doesn’t help.

 

“I couldn’t get the authorities involved,” Michael says, sounding downright apologetic. “If they’d thought you’d been attacked, we’d really be in a mess.”

 

Billy glowers. “And we’re so fine now?” he asks, the words punctuated with squeaks of air as he tries to sound indignant.

 

“It’s only 48 hours,” Michael offers.

 

“48 hours!” Billy exclaims -- or tries to. It’s a rather meager sound, though, that does nothing to capture the injustice. “What am I supposed to do?”

 

“Tell them a story,” Michael says. “Isn’t that what you do? Create a persona? Get people to believe it?”

 

“Personas with some basis in reality,” Billy counters. “Look at me! Would a man such as myself ever be believably suicidal?”

 

“Well, right now the bruising on your throat is sort of a compelling point against you.”

 

Billy knits his brows together crossly. “You can break me out.”

 

“And take you back to the safehouse?” Michael offers. “We’re better off here.”

 

“Easy for you to say,” he mutters. 

 

“Not really,” Michael replies, getting to his feet. “I’d stay but they’re only giving me a few minutes while you wake up. The rest of the time, you’re going to be kept alone.”

 

Billy purses his lips together.

 

“Hospital policy,” Michael explains. “They want to assess you without outside influences.”

 

Billy feels like flailing. Maybe it’s the mission; maybe it’s that Rick’s been shot. Maybe it’s that he’s been choked or maybe it’s all the damn drugs in his system.

 

Or really, it could just be the fact that he’s being kept mostly in isolation on a 48 hour psych hold.

 

This time, his face is pleading. “You can’t go,” he begs. “What am I supposed to do?”

 

Michael pats his shoulder one last time, lips quirking up into a grin. “Well, just hang in there, okay, buddy?”

 

Billy doesn’t smile; he can still feel the rope, still see that _damn_ poster. “Not funny.”

 

Michael moves to the door. “If you want, I could stop by the safehouse and pick up the poster for you.”

 

“Very _not funny,_ ” Billy hisses, wishing he had a proper voice to express his displeasure.

 

Michael simply grins wickedly at him for a moment, but at the door, he hesitates. “Seriously, though,” he says. “You’d be here for two days anyway. It’s not that bad. We’ll be here with Rick--”

 

“And you’ll let me know?”

 

Michael nods. “If we need to.”

 

With that, Michael leaves, and Billy watches him go.

 

They’re okay, he reminds himself, even as he takes another painful swallow. Rick’s going to be okay; Michael will salvage the mission. Billy has survived this much; he’ll survive the rest.

 

It’ll be okay.

 

-o-

 

It’s not a long walk to the ICU, but Michael already feels exhausted when he steps out of the elevator. He knows Billy’s going to be okay -- it was a close thing, and Michael’s not going to forget the image of Billy half-suspended from the floor any time soon -- but Billy’s alive and he’s more upset about being pegged for suicide watch than he is that he just got strung up and left to die.

 

And he wasn’t lying about Rick -- not really. The doctors had been optimistic, from what Casey had told him. But the kid is still on the critical list, and Michael is never under the assumption that concepts such as _luck_ actually work in their favor.

 

Plus, he’s not even sure what time it is. They’d gotten back to the safehouse well after dinner, and between everything, Michael’s pretty sure it’s the middle of the night and rapidly approaching dawn. Considering he hasn’t slept -- hell, he hasn’t even had a cup of coffee -- he’s feeling pretty worn down.

 

None of that even touches on the fact that this mission’s status is tenuous, that the safehouse has been breached, that someone nearly killed two of his men and he doesn’t know why. He’s been on and off the phone with Langley; he’s been working through their backup IDs. There’s a backup team on the way from Cape Town, but none of that helps him now.

 

Nothing helps him now except some good news and a place to close his eyes.

 

But when he walks around the corner toward Rick’s cubicle in the ICU, the first thing he sees is Casey standing in the hallway.

 

Michael’s stomach drops.

 

Casey doesn’t show it, but he worries about his teammates. A lot. Casey had been relentless during their wait for Rick’s surgery to be completed. He hadn’t even gone to the bathroom to clean up until Michael had made him, and he’d checked in with the nurses so often that Michael had worried they might issue a restraining order. When the kid had finally gotten out of surgery, Casey had insisted on staying with him.

 

To see him in the hallway...

 

“Relax,” Casey says, stopping Michael’s frantic train of thought. “He’s okay.”

 

Michael makes a face, disbelieving. “But--?”

 

“He’s awake,” Casey blurts, and a small grin plays at the edges of his mouth. “The nurses were so shocked that they called in the doctor right away. He’s in with the kid now.”

 

For a second, Michael can only gape. He’d wanted good news, but he’d been so braced for the bad that he’s not entirely sure he trusts this turn of events. “And he’s...?”

 

“Okay,” Casey says, sounding a little like he can’t believe it himself. “I mean, he was tired and in pain, but he remembers what happened. He was worried about Billy.”

 

Michael winces a little. “Billy’s going to be fine, but he wasn’t thrilled when I told him about the psych hold.”

 

“Can you blame him?” Casey asks pointedly. “Psychiatry is a questionable field of outright quackery, and while I do think Billy has more psychological issues than should be allowed, he’s not outright suicidal. I’d be indignant, too.”

 

Michael sighs. “If we’d taken them in together, you know we’d be even more of a mess,” he replies tautly.

 

Casey raises his eyebrows. “I’m not saying I disagree,” he says. “I believe it’s called empathy. It’s not an emotion I show often, but it did seem warranted.”

 

Michael squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. His fuse is short; his shoulders are tense. He’s angry and he’s worried and he doesn’t know who to blame. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, opening his eyes and letting his arm down wearily. “I just...”

 

“Thought the mission was going well and came back to find that everything’s been compromised?” Casey concludes. “Yeah, I know.”

 

Michael looks around cautiously, uncertainly eyeing the nurses working and the visitors who seem to come and go. “I’ve got Fay working several angles back home--”

 

“But we have to know now,” Casey agrees with a somber nod of his head. “I mean, we’re supposed to meet with Viljoen again in--” He looks at his watch. “--four hours.”

 

Michael resists the urge to groan. “Look,” he says. “I’m going to go back to the safehouse and see what I can find. I’ve got a meet with the asset--”

 

“Who could have betrayed us,” Casey points out.

 

“More reason to go meet with him, see what I can find out,” he says. He looks toward Rick’s room. “Billy’s going to be in a secure ward for the next two days, so we won’t have access to him anyway. Will you...?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll sit with the kid,” Casey says. “I’ll see if he can remember anything.”

 

“And be sure to keep alert,” Michael warns. “Do a pass by the psych ward every few hours, just to be sure.”

 

“I’m not even sure who to protect against,” Casey reminds him. “We need to figure out who did this.”

 

“I know,” Michael says grimly. “That’s what I’m going to work on.”

 

-o-

 

Billy is no stranger to hospital stays. He’s had more than his share. Normally he writes it all off as an occupational hazard, but he has to admit, he’s finding this one more draining than most. It could be because it feels like he’s just finished gargling with broken glass. It could also be that his voice is still strained and squeaky, making conversation almost impossibly awkward.

 

Or it could just be the fact that he’s more or less locked up because everyone thinks he’s mad.

 

That’s an exaggeration, of course. They just think he’s suicidal. He can see it in the nurses’ eyes. Where most of the time he can waggle his eyebrows and grin to start the process of flirting; now they just look at him sadly, as though he might actually implode on their short watch.

 

Getting strangled, almost losing a teammate and generally buggering up a mission is hard enough -- being denied the simple pleasure of flirting with nurses is downright cruel. 

 

It doesn’t help that his mates aren’t around. Usually he can count on one of them to keep him company through the long and monotonous hours of hospital stays. And it’s sort of making him feel on edge, not being a part of the team, especially when the mission is in the state it is.

 

Now that he’s awake and pleasantly medicated, Billy’s still going over it in his mind. He’d been so confused before, he’d never got a chance to discuss the details with Michael. Granted, he doesn’t know much, but he still remembers the man at the cafe. It hadn’t been coincidence.

 

It also hadn’t been subtle.

 

Perhaps he’d just been a lookout. Or maybe he’d known someone would be up there, looking down. Maybe the steady eye contact was a harbinger -- the worst kind of clue, after all, was one that you could figure out but never change.

 

If given photos, Billy could probably ID the man -- he had a keen sense for faces -- but they’d have to have some sort of prior photo to go off of, which might be a longshot.

 

Still, they have to know what the man’s affiliations are if they are going to figure out who ambushed them. It had to be someone who knew they were CIA -- because they’d found the security protocol and taken them out. Viljoen is good, but Billy’s not sure he’s that good -- not without some help. In some ways, he’s the most likely suspect being the mastermind criminal and all, but the theory still doesn’t sit well with Billy.

 

Though, to be fair, nothing sits well with Billy when he’s laid up in a hospital bed. Apparently in an effort to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself, the staff also sees fit to deny him any opportunities for amusement. If he doesn’t get to do something besides stare at the bloody wall, he reckons he might actually be insane by the time he gets out of here.

 

He sighs -- and regrets it when pain flares in his throat -- and looks at the clock.

 

And he sighs again, letting the low whine escape from his swollen neck unimpeded this time. With everything -- including his time unconscious and in the ER -- he’s only been here for 10 hours. Of that, he’s only been awake for three.

 

Which means he still has over a day left.

__

_Hang in there,_ Billy mentally reminds himself -- it could be worse, after all.

 

Though at this point, Billy’s not sure how.

 

-o-

 

The safehouse has already been compromised, but Michael works under the presumption that things can always get worse. There’s no security checkpoints anymore -- and he had to abandon his weapon -- so he’s more careful than ever going back inside.

 

On the inside, however, the scene is eerily calm. The last time he was here, Michael had been so distracted by Billy being strung from the ceiling to notice the rest. The apartment has always been sparsely furnished, but even the scant objects show the telltale signs of a struggle. The table is broken -- the laptop still open in sleep mode on the floor. And Billy’s poster is still hanging, the cuddly kitten still holding on like its life depends on it.

 

Michael is starting to know how it feels.

 

It’s some comfort, though. If only because at least Michael’s predicament isn’t emblazoned on some idiotic poster for years to come. No, when spies fall, all they get is a star on the wall -- and Michael is rather set on avoiding that for now.

 

Despite the obvious signs of a struggle, Michael can see no evidence that the front door has been tampered with. It was unlocked, of course, but it doesn’t seem to have been kicked in. Which meant the point of origin was the bedroom.

 

Turning away from the living room, Michael moves to the bedroom. The first thing he sees is the tacky puddle of congealed blood -- Rick’s blood. He doesn’t want to dwell on that, but he does note that the position suggests that Rick was in bed when it happened -- he hadn’t had much time to defend himself.

 

Moving around the bed, Michael goes to the window. It’s still broken, and he can feel the light breeze from outside. At the first sound of breaking glass, Rick would have been up. If he hadn’t had time to get out of bed, then whoever had broken in had known what to expect. All signs pointed to a planned hit, even if not a very clean one. The attackers came in fast and hard.

 

Skeptical, Michael ducks back outside, walking down to the second floor to check the security monitors. As expected, they’re visibly damaged. They had never been particularly high tech, but whoever disarmed them knew enough to simply rip them in two, effectively disarming them before an alarm could trigger.

 

In short, Rick and Billy had been ambushed by men who knew what they were doing and who would be in the safehouse.

 

And Michael just knows that his safehouse is compromised, his teammates are in the hospital, and his mission is up in the air. Worse still, he doesn’t even know who to blame.

 

Standing, Michael sighs, looking down the alleyway. He knows it’s actually a short list of suspects. Their asset could have sold them out or Viljoen could have made them somehow. Even so, Michael finds it hard to know how they found the safehouse. Thomas has never been there and Viljoen would have had to be on from the start to even have a chance. Michael’s careful, after all. The whole point of a safehouse is to be _safe._

 

The irony is hard to take. Uncertainty is not something Michael enjoys. He can’t go back and prevent this, but he can figure out what happened. Starting with their asset.

 

Glancing at his watch, Michael starts moving the rest of the way down the fire escape. He’s got a designated meet with Thomas before the day starts -- and whether or not Michael decides to proceed with the mission, going to this meeting is sort of a must.

 

On the main street, he ducks his head and picks up his pace. It’s not a long distance to the cafe, but without a car, Michael still needs to hurry. He takes a circuitous route, doubling back a few times and using side roads when possible. He goes into a market for a while just to see if the crowds pass him by, but when he arrives he’s still early.

 

Settling down, he eyes the other patrons carefully. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, and Michael orders a water while he waits. As engrossed as he is with watching the room, he knows exactly when Thomas is late.

 

Thomas is middle-aged and almost absurdly punctual. His straightforward organizational habits had made them a good match from the start. Plus, Thomas’ father was an American, so he’s always had business ties. Michael turned him as an asset nearly seven years ago when his business brought him back to South Africa. With a thriving array of exports and delivery services, Thomas had ended up in the middle of a case. His team leader at the time had just wanted to get him out of the way, but Michael had seen the potential, and all these years later, Thomas had never let him down.

 

Until today.

 

After twenty minutes, Michael knows something is wrong. He thanks the waitress as he leaves, slipping out the door and starting down the street, tracking the path toward Thomas’ home. It’s not a long way, and Michael makes good time. He foregoes the front door, moving seamlessly toward the back of the house. Thomas lives alone, and there’s no sign of movement inside.

 

Discreetly, Michael pulls out his lockpick and starts to make quick work of the back door when the knob turns and the door swings open.

 

Michael freezes, his heart starting to pound. He listens, but there’s still nothing. He’s got his gun again, and when he pulls it, he’s overcome with an eerie sense of deja vu.

 

The floor creaks as Michael steps inside. Overhead, the ceiling fan in the kitchen is swirling lazily. There’s a plate of uneaten food on the counter. Moving farther inside, Michael sees Thomas’ keys and unopened mail.

 

Then he turns toward the dining room and sees Thomas.

 

Or what’s left of him.

 

Thomas’ body is tied to a chair. His body is covered in cuts and his hands are bloody where some of his fingers are missing. All of this would be garish enough if not for the fact that Thomas’ head is no longer connected to his body. Instead, it’s sitting on the dining room table, like a macabre centerpiece.

 

Michael closes his eyes. The emotions swell; he’s not squeamish, but he may be sick all the same. Because Thomas is dead. Worse than that, Thomas appears to have been tortured. If he is the leak that got Michael’s team attacked, he wasn’t a willing one.

 

Resolved, Michael opens his eyes again, forcing himself to take a closer look. He saw Thomas less than a day ago, but the blood is dried. This isn’t new -- chances are, if Michael’s right, Thomas was attacked the same time Rick and Billy were.

 

A coordinated, multi-pronged attack.

 

All of which points to Viljoen. It’s not quite his MO, but Michael supposes it’s not a stretch. Viljoen is vicious, and he’s never had any qualms about violence. People have disappeared who get close to him, but maybe he’s ready to start sending more profound messages. Maybe this is just the first time any official authority has even gotten close to him.

 

He’s planning to take Thomas’ credentials and go back to meet up with Viljoen, but when he gets to the living room, there’s really no point.

 

Because lying spread-eagled on the floor is Viljoen, eyes open and staring, limp hands holding his exposed entrails, which have spilled out from the wide and gaping slash in his stomach.

 

-o-

 

Billy doesn’t particularly care for psychiatrists. It’s not that he doubts their abilities -- the ability to understand the human psyche is very much one of the skills he treasures most in life -- but it’s just that he doesn’t much like it when people try to understand his psyche. Well adjusted people don’t become spies, and Billy can do his job just fine and he doesn’t need to talk about his tumultuous childhood to do it.

 

Still, it’s not like he doesn’t have any experience with psychiatrists. His training for MI6 had involved extensive psychological analysis, which had been by far his least favorite aspect of the entire thing. The doctors at the CIA had been even more thorough because apparently assessing the risk of hiring a man ousted by one of their allies was a serious sort of thing.

 

Billy wasn’t naive enough to think that he could smile and wink his way through a psychological evaluation. But he was also experienced enough to know that it did, in fact, help.

 

Somehow, though, when the psychiatrist finally makes her rounds to Billy’s room, he doesn’t think flippancy will get him very far. He is, after all, on a psychiatric hold from what the medical staff believes is an attempted suicide. Normally Billy likes to write off injuries, but he’s fairly certain that nonchalance is not the way to go this time around.

 

No, they’ll want him to be honest and reflective, to confess to his emotional misgivings and seek to find new purpose in life.

 

At the very least, it’s a performance Billy hasn’t given before, so he resolves to make the best of it.

 

It’s not like he has anything better to do. 

 

Her name is Dr. Adair, and she’s about five years older than Billy. Her appearance is simple, and he thinks she could be rather fetching if she put some effort into it. Though perhaps impressing mental patients is low on her list of priorities.

 

“So,” Dr. Adair begins after the so-called pleasantries are out of the way. She speaks fluent English, and doesn’t waver with her eye contact. “Would you like to tell me about how you ended up here?”

 

At least she’s to the point. Billy bolsters himself, swallowing. His throat is still raw, but the swelling has gone down even if he’s too aware of the tender abrasions on the skin. “Apparently I tried to kill myself,” he says by way of reply.

 

She quirks an eyebrow. “Apparently?”

 

Billy clamps down his impulse to follow up with another quip and shrugs sullenly instead. “Truth be told, I don’t remember all the details.”

 

“What do you remember?” she asks.

 

Billy’s mind flashes -- the broken glass, Rick’s body on the floor, the rope around his neck -- and he works his jaw, taking a deep breath and letting it back out. He can use that anxiety -- it’s the key emotional component he has to build the right story here. “I remember thinking I had to keep hanging in there,” he says thoughtfully. He cocks his head. “But then, I just didn’t see the point.”

 

She nods. “So you decided to kill yourself?”

 

“It was more that I decided not to bother living anymore,” Billy tells her. He shrugs. “Sometimes going after the same thing, day after day, and never moving forward is draining.”

 

“Have you had these thoughts before?”

 

Billy’s shoulders slump and he lets his gaze drift to the ceiling while he shakes his head. He remembers when he first got his deportation notice, when he found out he was being disavowed and left out in the cold. He remembers sleeping with the gun on the pillow next to him, wondering if it was a better choice.

 

Looking back, he smiles. “Don’t we all?”

 

“Not all of us use a rope to hang ourselves,” she counters.

 

Billy is chagrined -- which is something, considering that her conclusion is not exactly true. The vulnerability is unsettling, though. Because Billy knows that the best lies are the ones with the most truth, and as much as this is all a fabrication, he has to pull the emotions from somewhere if he’s going to pull this off. He can’t blow his cover story by being flippant; he can’t oversell the drama and get himself drugged up and committed. It’s a fine line, and Billy’s good with persuasion but this level of nuance is worthy of Shakespeare.

 

And as avid a reader as Billy is, Michael is right when he says that Billy’s poetic heart isn’t connected to his writing hand. He covers a lot with charm.

 

It seems suddenly ironic how little that’s worth to him here.

 

“No,” Billy finally agrees. “I reckon they don’t.”

 

Dr. Adair repositions, sitting up in her chair and keeping Billy in her gaze. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re in South Africa for business,” she says. “You have a UK passport?”

 

“Yes,” Billy replies, working his brain for the right details. His cover for the mission is one he has memorized, but he checked his chart -- Michael’s pulled a backup ID and Billy can only hope that he’s left the rest wide open for Billy as he comes up with something feasible. “I came here looking for a new business opportunity.”

 

Dr. Adair, tilts her head. “And?”

 

Billy offers a wry smile in return. “I tried to hang myself in my flat,” he says. “I think you can figure out how it went.”

 

She seems unaffected by his coy response. “Why was the business so important?”

 

Billy blew out a breath -- a small scoff of indignation. “Because a man’s livelihood is all he has,” he replies. “‘A man can do no better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in his work.’”

 

“What do you do for a living?”

 

Billy grunts. “What haven’t I done?” he retorts, because being vague is easier than developing a falsehood that might be easily pulled apart. “I’ve tried a bit of everything -- been a jack of all trades.”

 

“And this venture?”

 

Billy sighs, looking at his hands. “I was going to invest in a start up tech company,” he says. “It all looked so promising on paper, and even the facility when I came to check it out.”

 

“But?”

 

“But...as soon as they got my money, everything was gone,” he admits. “I was broke and disgraced. All my life’s savings -- gone. I didn’t even have money for a trip home. They took everything from me and I’ve kept on all my life, but what was the bloody point? I work hard, I do the right things, and for what? To be left with _nothing._ ”

 

The self-loathing is surprisingly easy to muster up, because he knows what it’s like to lose it all. He knows what it’s like to never be able to face his friends or his family again. He knows what it’s like to have nothing and be faced with starting from scratch.

 

Billy had done it, of course. But he’s hard-pressed to consider what he would have done if the CIA hadn’t taken him in. 

 

It’s not a pleasant thought, and the grimace on his face feels real.

 

There’s an uncomfortably long pause, and Billy looks up, feeling Dr. Adair’s eyes on him. In other circumstances, he’d deflect -- diffuse the situation with a joke.

 

Now, he just gives up, clamping his mouth shut and waiting to be pressed for more.

 

“And now?” she asks finally.

 

Billy blinks; it’s not exactly the question he expects. “And now?” he repeats.

 

“What will you do now?” she presses.

 

“Well, I’m not sure there is much to do,” he says.

 

“Do you still want to kill yourself?” she asks bluntly.

 

It’s all a lie, but the starkness of the question still makes Billy uncomfortable. “Reckon there’s not much point anymore,” he says. “I already buggered it up once. Must be fate’s way of telling me I have no choice but to stick this out, shame and humiliation notwithstanding.”

 

In all, he thinks that’s a brilliant answer. It’s self-aware and realistic. It’s self-deprecating and remorseful. But it’s not without enough commitment to living. And that’s a truth that he doesn’t have to fabricate. He knows what it means to live. He knows what it is to hang on even when there’s nothing left to hold on to.

 

Billy knows what it is to hit rock bottom and persevere. He knows what it is to be a broken soul with the pieces glued back together.

 

He knows.

 

“What will you do?” Dr. Adair asks.

 

“See if I can beg some money from one of my friends back home,” he says. “I’m not sure I’d have any credible references here.”

 

“So you’d go home?”

 

The questions makes Billy’s chest twinge. “I’m not sure there’s much in the UK I can call home by this point,” he says. “A few friends, maybe. But I reckon a new start might be in order. I always did have this job offer in the States I’d been putting off.”

 

It’s a very subtle shift -- but the idea of change, of a second start -- it’s hope. It worked for Billy once; surely it’ll work again.

 

But Dr. Adair’s eyes narrow. “You have no one to go back to?”

 

“Just a few mates, but we talk more by text these days anyway--”

 

“I mean, a significant other,” Dr. Adair says. 

 

Billy manages to keep his sheepish grin from appearing impish. “I’ve traveled a lot,” he says. “It makes most of my relationships short term.”

 

“Does that bother you?”

 

It’s not a question Billy suspects. He’d built his lie on the premise of being alone partially so he wouldn’t have to venture into interpersonal falsities that just muddied the waters. Sob stories about cheating wives and sick mothers are compelling, but Billy knows the hardest of them all is isolation.

 

He shakes his head, making a face. “I’m a bachelor by choice,” he says. “It’s far too late to change that now.”

 

Dr. Adair doesn’t relent. “You’ve never wanted to settle down?”

 

The question makes Billy stop. The answer -- _the road has always called to me_ \-- is on the tip of his tongue. But he can remember Elizabeth Dwyer from university, the way her lips felt when they kissed or the way her eyes brightened when he told her he loved her. In her, he’d seen the possibilities. He’d seen a house in the country and a couple of sprogs. He’d seen a steady job and a ring on his finger.

 

She’d seen something else, and it had probably been for the best.

 

These years later, he had to think that. 

 

He shakes his head. “Maybe once...”

 

“So there was someone?” Dr. Adair asks astutely.

 

Frustrated, Billy sighs. “Years ago,” he says. “It would have been foolish, though, and I know that now.”

 

Skeptically, Dr. Adair purses her lips. “What about your parents?”

 

It takes all of Billy’s self control not to swear. Because he’s been attacked and he’s been strangled and he’s stuck on a psych hold and he’s already created the perfect story for everything -- and now she wants to talk about his parents.

 

The best he can muster is a rueful smile. “Not much to say,” he says. “They’re dead.”

 

Dr. Adair is unbothered by his bluntness. “Did you have a good relationship with them?”

 

Billy thinks about his father, drinking in his chair. He thinks about walking home with a black eye because his father refused to pick him up after school. He thinks about the dark cupboard where his da locked him up to keep him from scampering in and out in front of the TV.

 

He thinks about the bloody corpse before they’d taken it away.

 

He thinks about the deep hole in the ground, and how Billy hated everything about the man -- especially how all he wanted was his approval.

 

“My father was a difficult man,” Billy admits, far more candidly than he intends. “He’d be disappointed to see me here.”

 

Disappointed; not surprised.

 

“And your mother?”

 

Billy’s breath catches, and his eyes burn. She’d put up with his father all those years, but the moment he died, she gave up, too. Cancer didn’t take her until years later, but she let go the day they buried him in the ground. “She always thought that things would get better,” he tells her. “If we could hold out, just one more day.”

 

“Was she right?”

 

Billy wants to laugh; he thinks he may cry. “I reckon I still like to think so.”

 

Dr. Adair nods, jotting something down on the chart in front of her for the first time before readying herself. “Well, that was very insightful,” she says. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be back later to continue these questions and to talk about ongoing treatment options.”

 

Billy blinks, feeling a bit lost suddenly. He’s forgotten for a moment -- forgotten that this is a ruse. “What about the psych hold?”

 

“At the follow up, I’ll assess long term implications from this event with you,” she says. “Even though you seem to have a steady sense of hope following this incident, I’ll need to spend more time with you to see if you are equipped to handle the challenges of the aftermath. You seem like a fighter, but you’ve given up once, so it is essential to know that you won’t do it again.”

 

On her feet now, she smiles warmly. “We made excellent progress today,” she tells him earnestly. “You should feel very good about this.”

 

She’s right in ways she can’t even fathom. Because she believes Billy has hope. If he can spout a few self-help techniques upon her return, he’s confident he’ll be given his walking papers in no time.

 

And yet, lying there and remembering, Billy doesn’t feel very good. Not about the mission and not about the rope that found itself around his neck. Not about Elizabeth Dwyer or MI6. Not his about his father or his mother. 

 

He just doesn’t feel very good at all.

 

-o-

 

Michael is tense the whole way back. He doesn’t trust a taxi driver, but walking through the streets isn’t much better. Everyone seems to be looking at him, and he’s far too aware of the multiple vulnerabilities of being alone on a crowded street. The alleys aren’t any better, though, and it’s all Michael’s self control not to start running. 

 

As it is, Michael’s drenched with sweat and his finger itches, the weight of his gun close -- but not close enough. He resists the urge to tackle an old lady carrying a suspicious bag, and stares down a group of young men on the street corner just in case. Normally he’d attribute this to his overactive sense of paranoia, but this time, he’s pretty sure he’s justified.

 

The safehouse had been stormed. Someone had killed Thomas and dragged Viljoen there to boot. This isn’t just business; this is comprehensively personal.

 

But it doesn’t make any sense. The main suspects, Viljoen and Thomas -- both dead. It could be a mutual associate, but no one in either of their operations has enough wherewithal to mount such an attack. Nothing in their intelligence suggested any kind of strife.

 

It doesn’t make any sense. To storm the safehouse but leave Michael’s men alive? To track down Viljoen and Thomas and murder them so gruesomely?

 

Normally Michael is good at putting the pieces together, but this puzzle isn’t coming together.

__

_Nothing_ is coming together, and Michael feels like he’s working against an invisible clock, walking around with a bullseye on his back. 

 

He’s so stressed when he gets back to the hospital that he’s downright jittery. Because Michael likes control, and he doesn’t have anything resembling control.

 

Inside, even the doctors and nurses look sinister, and Michael wishes he hadn’t ditched his gun outside. He wishes none of this had happened at all -- he wishes that he hadn’t had this asset, that this wasn’t a mission he felt he had to complete. But he’s not sure he can complete it -- he’s not even sure he can get his team home.

 

The tension is pulling his stomach so taut that he feels like he’s ready to snap. When he gets to Rick’s room, he slips inside, closing the door abruptly before shifting to the side and casting a wary glance out the door.

 

“If you’re going for subtle, I’m not sure such outright paranoia is your best approach,” Casey says glibly.

 

Brow furrowed, Michael turns. “We have a problem.”

 

Casey looks nonplussed. “You think?”

 

On the bed, Rick is propped up and awake. At Michael’s obvious agitation, he tries to sit up a bit more, face creased with concern. “What happened?” he asks. “Billy--?”

 

Michael shakes his head. “He should be secure in the psych ward by now,” he replies.

 

“I take it you found something at the safehouse?” Casey prompts.

 

“No,” Michael replies. “But I went to my meet with Thomas--”

 

“Did he turn on us?” Rick asks.

 

For the first time, Michael really takes a second to look at the kid -- and realizes that this is the first time he’s seen Martinez awake since he was shot -- no more than a day ago. The kid looks weak and pale, but he’s awake and he’s conscious. He nods toward the kid. “You okay?”

 

Rick shakes his head. “Yeah, but that’s not the point--”

 

“It is the point,” Michael interjects. He looks to Casey. “What’s the doctor say?”

 

“Mostly, that Rick’s lucky,” Casey replies. “Bullet didn’t hit anything vital. The blood loss almost made his system crash but once they fixed the bleeders and transfused him, he’s been rebounding well.”

 

“I’m fine,” Rick says, a little indignant. “So what _is_ our problem?”

 

Michael’s not convinced Rick is fine -- the kid has just been shot and is recovering from substantial surgery. Blood loss can be rectified but the effects don’t go away immediately. And he needs to know about complicating factors -- about the muscles and nerves involved, about long term impairments, about recovery, about infection -- but he can’t deny that there are unfortunately larger issues still at play. 

 

“Thomas is dead,” he reports.

 

Casey shows no reaction, but Rick’s eyes widen. “Did Viljoen figure out he was an asset?”

 

“Hard to say,” Michael says. He shifts, grinding his teeth together for a moment. “Viljoen is dead too.”

 

This time, Casey has a reaction. “They were together?”

 

Michael nods. “Viljoen was at Thomas’ place.”

 

Rick’s face screws up in confusion. “They weren’t friendly, were they?”

 

“You don’t usually ask criminals over for dinner,” Casey returns. He looks at Michael. “Any idea of what brought them together?”

 

“I’m guessing it wasn’t their idea,” Michael says. He takes a long breath, shaking his head soberly. “The bodies were set up -- almost like they wanted someone to find them. It wasn’t pretty.”

 

“Another message,” Casey muses.

 

“What message?” Rick asks from the bed.

 

Michael sighs. “Back at the safehouse -- whoever attacked you did it quickly. Both you and Billy were overpowered within minutes,” he explains. “We didn’t show up right away, but they still didn’t finish the job. Why go through the trouble of disabling a CIA safehouse, attacking the operatives stationed there, and then leave them only half dead?”

 

Rick looks paler at the bluntness.

 

Casey supplies the grim answer: “Because they didn’t want to kill you. They wanted to send a message.”

 

“But what message?”

 

Rick gives the question voice, but it’s the one on all their minds. Michael’s made a career of answering questions most people don’t dare asking -- and he’s good at it. He has a filing cabinet full of finished cases, each methodically completed, because he knows how to get answers. He knows how to finish the job.

 

But he doesn’t even know what this job is anymore. He doesn’t know anything.

 

This isn’t about exposing them -- if it was about telling Viljoen their real identities, killing Viljoen would have been superfluous. This isn’t about containing them, either. After all, Billy and Rick are still alive -- and it would have been easy to stake out the safehouse and jump Michael and Casey while they came back.

 

No, this is about control. The attackers have been purposeful every step of the way. They’ve called the shots and they’ve controlled what they can and cannot do. By not killing Rick and Billy, they left the distinct impression that it was a choice -- but not Michael’s. Michael usually takes point, but on this mission he’s a step behind.

 

A dangerous, terrible step behind.

 

It’s like someone has looked into Michael’s mission and picked apart the elements piece by piece. The safehouse is exposed; his team is broken. His asset is dead and his mark has been taken out without any interrogation or gain.

 

This is personal. It’s about letting Michael know he can’t finish this job, no matter what he does.

 

Because someone else is going to finish it first.

 

Michael doesn’t like unfinished business...

 

His heart stutters, his chest clenching. _Unfinished business._

 

He swears. “The message isn’t about this mission,” he says, mind racing. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, and he swallows. 

 

Rick shakes his head, clearly confused. “I don’t understand.”

 

“They’re saying the worst is yet to come,” Michael explains. “Think about it. The safehouse, incapacitating the team. Taking out the asset and the mark.”

 

“It’s building,” Casey realizes.

 

Rick frowns. “And what’s next?”

 

The realization is weighty, and Michael feels nauseated. “Us,” he says with a sudden certainty. It’s too methodical; it’s too calculated. “They’re going to come and take us out, one by one.”

 

Casey purses his lips. “We don’t know--”

 

“Thomas was tortured,” Michael replies gruffly. “If you’re going to take the time to do that sort of thing, you’re playing to something bigger. Whoever this is knows they’re a step ahead.”

 

“So if we’ve figured this out,” Rick says, tilting his head a little.

 

Casey looks at Michael coldly. “Then what are they up to now?”

 

Michael looks at Casey; he looks at Rick.

 

He thinks about Billy, stuck on a psychiatric hold. 

 

His heart skips a beat. “When did you last check on Billy?”

 

“I made a pass by the ward an hour ago,” he says. “But they wouldn’t let me close to him--”

 

Michael closes his eyes.

 

Someone is picking apart his mission -- and Michael left one of his men, injured and alone.

 

There’s fear; there’s a spike of panic; there’s anger and frustration and doubt and everything.

 

But Michael doesn’t leave his missions unfinished.

 

Not now. Not with stakes like these.

 

He opens his eyes. “We’ve got to get up there.”

 

Rick shakes his head again on the bed. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Who--”

 

“There’s no time,” Michael snaps. He looks at Casey. “Stay here; watch out for Rick.”

 

“Michael--” Casey starts to protest.

 

Michael’s already at the door. “Just _trust me,_ ” he says emphatically before ducking out the door and praying -- _hoping_ \-- he’s not too late.

 

-o-

 

Billy’s done nothing but lay around all day, and though Michael often chides him for his slothful behavior, Billy doesn’t actually prefer total laziness. Rather, he likes idle activities and restless hobbies. At work, he’s doodling or doing crosswords, stringing together paperclips just because he can. At his flat, he plays guitar or reads his books, perhaps scrawling a few lines of verse on a napkin when the inspiration hits. 

 

Such things are entertaining. They also keep him preoccupied so that he doesn’t dwell on all the things in his life that are not quite well. Billy’s no fool; he knows his circumstances would evoke pity by most standards. But he stands tall and smiles enough that no one dares think that hard. 

 

He has no such defenses here, and the inactivity leaves him drained. Billy’s not one to quit -- he’s had ample opportunity -- but for the first time in a long time, he sort of wants to.

 

It’s just the solitude, he reminds himself. It’s the interminable silence and the lies he’s had to perpetuate to keep his cover. Talking about the drudgeries of life is depressing -- he’s not sure who decided it’s an appropriate part of therapy. The Scottish are a hearty folk, but without any scotch in sight, Billy’s starting to wonder what the bloody point is anymore.

 

Which is all to say, quite decisively, that he’s thinking too much. He doesn’t doubt that one of the doe-eyed nurses will be back soon to offer him a small pill to help him sleep, but Billy knows that the medication only makes the malaise worse. Instead, he reaches over, dimming the lights with the switch by his bed. He adjusts the back of the bed until it’s back a bit further, before settling down and drawing the starchy blankets back over his hospital-issue pajamas.

 

He’s usually a night owl, but given the injuries to his throat and the nonstop emotional probing, he’s ready for some rest. Really, if he’s got another day to get through, letting the hours lapse via unconsciousness sounds more appealing than anything else.

 

It doesn’t take much after he closes his eyes, and his mind starts to drift. He thinks about his team, about Michael by his side, about Rick back in the safehouse. He thinks about pinning up the poster: _that poster changes lives._

 

The literary irony is roiling, even in his slumber.

 

When his mind drifts deeper, he finds himself in the back of his father’s car, cradling his broken arm as his father looks back and shakes his head. _I don’t intend to spend my life picking you up._

 

And then Billy’s the kitten, furry and scruffy, claws digging in for dear life, just holding on and holding on and--

 

He’s startled awake by the door, and he blinks blearily as the white-clad nurse shuffles to his side. He’s slept through the shift change, because the night nurse seems to be here. The man is quiet, at least, and hopefully this will mean fewer pitiful looks. Billy’s dignity could use the boost.

 

“Just leave the pills,” Billy murmurs while the man fusses at Billy’s bedside. Billy blinks sleepily. “Though just the antibiotic.” He swallows painfully. “And the painkiller.”

 

There’s no response, and Billy dares to hope it’s that easy. But the man holds out a small cup. “I have to see you take them,” he says, almost apologetic with a heavy accent. “Protocol.”

 

Billy grumbles, sleep slipping from his mind as he sits up gingerly. There are two pills, both familiar-looking, so he takes the cup and tips it back, the two small pills landing on his tongue.

 

And that’s when Billy realizes something’s wrong.

 

Because there are still two hours until shift change, and the man’s ID is all wrong. The pills taste unusually bitter in his mouth, and the man’s uniform doesn’t even fit. These are clear signs he should have picked up on sooner, but he was sleeping and he was tired and--it’s happening again. The attack at the safehouse caught him off guard, and now this.

__

_This._

__

He shifts the pills, putting them under his tongue and offering up a meager smile. “All done,” he says. “Now if it’s all the same--”

 

“Open your mouth,” the man says.

 

Billy hesitates, offering his most winning smile even as he assesses just how bad this is. He’s still weak, and while he only needs one good punch, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have that much. The room is secure but all he has to do is get out into the hall, cause a commotion. Even a yell might work. Hell, if he can just hit the call button--

 

His eyes flicker to the side.

 

And the man lunges.

 

Billy tries to get away, but he’s too slow. The man clamps a sweaty hand over his mouth, forcing him flat on his back. Billy flails, reaching up with his hands to grab the man’s hard, yanking hard. The man growls and as Billy bucks, fingers trying to scrape at the man’s eyes, the man simply responds by pinching Billy’s nose.

 

Oxygen deprivation -- it’s a smart tactic. Even trained fighters tend to panic when the air supply is compromised. It’s a feeling Billy knows all too well in this mission, and with the pain igniting in his neck, it’s like deja vu.

 

He fights harder, but the pills are dissolving. He writhes and pokes, but the bitterness fills his senses. His hands start to feel numb, and his vision blurs. The fight dissipates as he finally swallows, his body sagging beneath the crushing grip of his attacker.

 

Pleading, his eye search upward, and he meets the man’s dark eyes. They’re familiar, strangely. A piercing gaze across the street.

 

Over his head.

 

Billy’d been too slow then.

 

He’s too slow now.

 

The moments stretch, and he loses track of time. When he can breathe again, it’s too late. The world is spinning, and his limbs won’t move. He’s vaguely aware that he’s being lifted, but his body goes limp.

 

He wants to hold on, to hang in there, just like Michael says.

 

But Billy has nothing left.

 

So he lets go.

 

-o-

 

Michael’s pace is brisk, but he retains a semblance of composure. When he gets to the ward, he pauses, bending over to tie his shoe while he surreptitiously watches someone at the desk. All personnel have to swipe a card. Michael could hang around to snag one, but even then, getting in without a lab coat or scrubs is going to arouse attention. The ward is restricted but not inaccessible. Billy’s only isolated because of the suicide attempt -- longer term patients have guest privileges.

 

Mind made up, Michael stands up and approaches the desk. He leans against it, smiling broadly as his eyes flit over the charts and the doctor’s flow chart. He lands upon the one on top, and hopes for the best when the nurse asks in the local tongue, “May I help you?”

 

“Yes,” Michael says, stumbling over the words. “I’m here to visit Mr. Rooyen.”

 

The nurse gives him a puzzled look.

 

“Long lost friend,” he replies. “We spent some time together before I moved overseas. I heard he was in here, and while I’m in the country I had to stop by.”

 

The nurse tilts her head, nodding. “Mr. Rooyen will be glad to have visitors,” she reports. “I take it this is a surprise?”

 

Michael forces a grin. “Hopefully a good one.”

 

She smiles congenially, handing him a paper to sign. “Just sign this with the date and time,” she says.

 

Michael scratches something illegible before handing it back.

 

“I’m sure it will be a great surprise,” she says, pressing a button on her desk with a smile. She hands him a visitor sticker. “Room 634. Be sure to check with me on your way out.”

 

Michael nods at her, peeling the sticker and putting it on his shirt. “Thank you,” he says, gratefully ducking inside. Once through the door, he notices the camera and dutifully checks the signs. He moves down the hallway to 634 but quickly veers back, discreetly moving down the opposite direction. He doesn’t know for sure which room Billy’s in, but the note about a 48-hour hold in room 665 fits the bill, so Michael thinks he’ll try there first.

 

He keeps himself steady, keeping himself calm and to the point. Looking like he belonged is most of the battle, and he passes a pair of nurses with no issue. A doctor gives him a lingering look, but he turns the corner toward 665 and doesn’t look back.

 

This is probably nothing, he tells himself. This is probably just his paranoia acting up. Billy’s throat’s a mess and the doctors think he’s suicidal, but he’ll be okay.

 

He has to be okay.

 

When he gets to the door, he doesn’t hesitate and opens it, expecting to see Billy, more annoyed than surprised, ready to regale him with stories about being locked up in the looney bin.

 

But the room is empty.

 

Stomach twisting, Michael goes to the bed, checking the chart. It’s Billy’s alias, so Michael has the right room. Chewing his lip, he looks around, considering. Billy could be out. Billy is social, after all. He might have gotten restless and convinced a doctor to let him out for a bit. But on a 48-hour hold, the staff isn’t likely to give him much leeway, no matter how charming he may be.

 

No, Billy should be here, in this bed, _safe._

 

Panic barely at bay, Michael looks over the room again. The bed is a mess, clearly slept in -- but the blanket is on the floor. There’s an empty dixie cup on the floor and an unopened bottle of water by the bed. It’s not necessarily ominous, but none of it sits right. Anxiety building, Michael picks up Billy’s chart again, quickly sorting through the notes. The nurses have already made their rounds, based on the time intervals listed so far, but there’s no notation from Billy’s last scheduled checkup. There’s an appointment with the psychiatrist slated in another two hours, presumably at the start of evening rounds. There are no notes for other tests or scans to be performed and all the statistics suggest that Billy’s physically recovering just fine.

 

Michael frowns, putting the chart back. Meals would be brought to him. He moves toward the far side of the room and opens the door to see the empty and undisturbed bathroom. 

 

Billy’s _gone._

 

The realization is numbing, and his mind flashes back to the gruesome scene at Thomas’ house. If someone has come for Billy, they won’t get him very far -- not out of a locked ward. Even if the attacker has real or borrowed credentials at the hospital, there are too many security checkpoints on the way out. 

 

That doesn’t mean Billy’s safe. They don’t have to actually get Billy out of the hospital to kill him -- but why not just kill him here? Inject him with something or smother him with a pillow? That’s the point, after all. To leave Billy as a message for Michael to feel guilty about?

 

Michael looks over the room again, hoping for any hint or clue before looking out the window, scanning the rooftops, desperate for some clue where Billy may be. Where would someone take Billy for Michael to find? Where _could_ someone take Billy without getting stopped by security? Even if credential will get someone into a ward, getting out of a hospital is easier said than done.

 

Out the window, the city moves on, and Michael glances up.

 

Rooftops.

 

Michael’s mind stops, his heart nearly thudding to a halt. There _is_ another way out of the hospital; there is another way _down._

 

The roof.

 

This is a trauma center; the staff elevator would have direct access to the roof and the security checkpoint there would be minimal -- if anything. It’s probably considered a light security risk -- there aren’t many ways off a roof, not without a well timed helicopter.

 

Except one.

 

-o-

 

The air is cool against Billy’s face, and the light breeze makes him shudder. He breathes in, almost choking when his damaged throat constricts. The pain makes him convulse slightly, and he’s surprised when someone scoops him up from behind, propping him up against something until he’s in a seated position.

 

Billy tries to help, but finds himself unable. When he tries to lift his head, it merely rocks back limply and whoever is there has to put a steady hand on his shoulder to keep him upright.

 

Despite his best intentions, Billy’s eyes are slipping shut again, even as someone takes his hand.

 

At first, he thinks maybe it’s one of his teammates. But there’s no encouragement, no friendly reminder that all will be well. Instead, something cylindrical is pressed into his palm and his fingers are wrapped purposefully around it until he’s being forced to hold it.

 

It doesn’t make sense, and Billy’s struggling to point his eyes in the right direction when his head is promptly tipped back toward the sky. The day is waning, and his field of vision ebbs as his consciousness slips again.

 

The touch shifts, and calloused fingers pry open his jaw. He tries to move, but the impulses don’t make it very far. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a whimper, which is cut short when something is dumped in his mouth.

 

The round shape tastes chalky on his tongue -- and there’s enough to overload his senses and gag him. He tries to thrash, but before he can even tip his head forward again, tepid water is poured into his mouth. The onslaught is too much. The liquid floods his mouth, clogging his throat as it takes the pills with it. Convulsing, stars explode behind his eyes as his jaw is forced shut again and he has no choice but to swallow.

 

The first swallow hurts, straining against his damaged throat. The second isn’t much better, and the third leaves him spent as he surrenders to the inevitability of it.

 

He knows this is bad. He knows this is very bad.

 

Weak and drugged, though, Billy’s not sure there’s anything he can do about it.

 

The pressure on his jaw eases, and without the hand in place, Billy’s head lolls forward. He has to work to lift it again, eyes struggling to focus on the man in front of him.

 

The eyes are the same, but this time the cold smile made him shudder.

 

At least, it would have, if he’d had the ability to move.

 

“I want you to know, this isn’t about you,” the man says in careful English. “Michael Dorset started something a long time ago; I am merely the one to see it through.”

 

Billy furrows his brow faintly, trying to ask why. His breathing hitches, a small mewl the only sound he manages to produce.

 

“I realize this seems laborious,” the man tells him, almost apologetic. “You will not have to wait any longer, though.”

 

Billy’s confusion mounts, but the grip on him shifts and his head drops back limply again. He’s struggling to find his bearings when the rough hands grab him under the armpits and lift him up. The movement is jarring, and Billy’s stomach flips even as his heavy limbs hang uselessly. He’s being dragged backward but it all stops abruptly and he’s hoisted higher.

 

The movement has him perched on something hard, and he slumps forward while the man adjusts his grip. For a second, Billy’s head is pressed against his chest so close that he can hear the steadiness of his heartbeat before he’s shifted again.

 

There’s nothing to support him this time, and when he flops back, he’s buffeted by a gust of wind. The man has him by the wrists, and Billy’s body is twisted limply as his eyes finally focus.

 

And he sees the ground.

 

A few hundred feet down.

 

Sluggish as he is, Billy still understands. He understands the fresh air; understands why he won’t have to wait any longer. He understands that this ends with him smashed and broken against the pavement.

 

He understands that he can’t even fight it.

 

His body refuses to respond, and things are dim. Gravity is pulling him, and his dead fingers can’t even search for purchase.

 

It seems like a bad way to go; it seems unfair. To survive so much, just to go like this. And Michael...

__

_Just hang in there._

__

But Billy can’t. There’s nothing he can do, and he wonders idly about the stupid kitten, if it holds on because it wants to stay up or if it’s just scared to fall.

 

Billy will never know.

 

-o-

 

Michael waits until he signs out of the ward and slips into a stairwell before he starts to run. Then he takes the stairs two at a time, lunging with every bit of energy he has. As he passes the ninth floor, he almost trips, hitting his shins on the cement, but he barely feels the pain -- and he doesn’t slow down.

 

He’s been too late every step so far. He can’t be too late now. He _can’t._

 

The signs for the roof have warnings about restricted access, but Michael makes quick work of the lock. He knows that he’s probably tripped a security sensor at some point, but he doesn’t care. Instead, he flings the door open, bursting into the fading daylight.

 

He’s panting, and it’s only now that he’s standing exposed, he remembers that he’s actually unarmed. Not only that, he has no plan of attack. He’s been so set on finding Billy that he hasn’t thought any of this through. It’s sort of a terrifying revelation. Michael’s spent his career knowing exactly what’s coming next, controlling all the pieces to dictate the outcome, but time time, he feels like just another piece on a chessboard, hoping not to lose any more of his pawns.

 

It’s stupid; he’s probably going to get himself killed and be no use to any of his team, much less Billy.

 

But Michael’s going to see this through.

 

Blood rushing in his ears, Michael turns, frantically searching the roof top. He jogs across the helipad, moving around toward another outcropping toward the front of the building --

 

And there’s Billy.

 

The Scot is perched precariously on the ledge, body limp and face slack as someone props him up and starts to shift him back.

 

“No!” Michael yells, breaking into a run, but he has to come to a skidding halt when the figure stops, yanking Billy off the ledge and holding him in front with one arm around his neck.

 

The other hand is holding a gun -- pointed straight at Billy’s head.

 

Billy doesn’t seem aware of it -- his eyes open and close intermittently, and his knees seem weak. It’s entirely likely that the only thing keeping him upright is the arm around his neck. Still, despite the lack of awareness, Michael can see no other injuries, which is a small bit of relief.

 

The relief, however, stops there.

 

Because Billy’s still basically insensate and he’s got a gun to his head while standing next to the edge of a very tall building. Michael has no weapons, no leverage -- nothing that can possibly secure his release. Any move he makes can be easily counteracted -- to Billy’s detriment.

 

Helpless, Michael looks at the man. At first glance, Michael doesn’t know him. He has dark skin and thick black hair. His deep eyes are penetrating and his expression borders on mirthful. 

 

“Hello, Operative,” he says.

 

Michael keeps very still, narrowing his gaze to focus on the man more clearly. “Do we know each other?”

 

“Not directly,” the man replies, adjusting his grip slightly on Billy. “However, in your line of work, most connections are tenuous, yes? A friend of a friend. The enemy of your enemy.”

 

Expression neutral, Michael cocks his head slightly, studying the man closer. He’s got a good memory for these sorts of things -- for everything, really -- but he’s pretty sure that he hasn’t met this man before. But there’s still something familiar about him, something innately recognizable that Michael can’t quite put together.

 

This man knows him -- knows him as CIA, knows his safehouse and his mission. It fits the profile Michael’s been building -- someone with unfinished business, someone who he’s worked with before, maybe someone who he’s screwed over before. That’s a long list, though. It had to be someone from a previous bust -- that’s the only way he’d be able to identify him by face and connect him to the CIA. 

 

Cautious, Michael shrugs. “I tend to assume that everyone is my enemy,” he says. “And since you’ve been killing my contacts here, I’m safe in assuming that we’re not friends?”

 

The man’s lips curl into a sinister smile. “You told me we were once,” he says. “Mr. Jones? Though I do not think that is really your name.”

 

Michael’s stomach went cold and his fingers started tingling. Mr. Jones. It was a common alias, but it still sparks a memory of this time, of this place. Of his last mission in South Africa. When he first met Thomas. 

 

It was a mission he’d finished.

 

At least, that was what he thought.

 

The man’s grin widens. “You told me many things,” he says. “You said you would protect me; you said that you were going to make it better.”

 

Michael’s heart starts to pound, and he looks at Billy, dangling lifelessly in the man’s iron grip.

 

“You promised hope,” the man continues. “I stayed in your crappy apartment for days and days while you promised hope.”

 

Michael’s mind races, trying to piece together the details, to make the connection.

 

The man pulls Billy tighter, the smile fading to anger now. “I was a child, so I believed you,” he says, gun still steady against the side of Billy’s head. “I stayed in the tiny bedroom and trusted you.”

 

Michael’s stomach hollows out and he remembers -- the dealer they’d been after was a single father. They’d extracted the boy first, kept him safe through the fire fight before turning him over to the authorities to find a safe long term living arrangement. 

 

“But there was no hope,” the man hisses. “When I got out, there were foster homes and group homes. My uncles -- killed. My father -- publicly humiliated and put in prison. My home, my friends, my life -- all gone.”

 

Michael had been told the boy had an aunt, but he’d never followed up. He’d never thought to check. He’d made sure the operation was shut down; he’d taken out the bad guys. That’d been his job -- taking care of the kid had just been an act of mercy.

 

“So I have waited,” the man continues. “I found that street and rented an apartment the floor above it. I have waited for anyone to come back. Imagine my surprise when it was you.”

 

Michael’s chest hurts now, his throat tight with emotion. Billy is still out of it -- and Michael’s still unarmed.

 

The man -- Michael can’t even remember his name, but he can see the small, dark eyes looking up at him the day he left -- moves closer to the ledge, pulling Billy along with him. “I have lived a lifetime waiting to finish what you started,” he says, face hardened as he scrapes the muzzle harder against Billy’s head. “But this time, I will write the ending. No more loose ends. No more unfinished business.”

 

Michael’s breath catches. His eyes glance around the roof, looking for something -- anything--

 

Unfinished business. Michael can work and try and put forth everything, and it may not be enough. He can’t tie every loose end. 

 

Sometimes, he just has to let go.

 

He lifts his hands, shrugging helplessly. “I know better than to try to talk you out of it,” he says. “A word of warning, though--”

 

The man tenses, his face twitching just a little.

 

Michael makes no effort to move. “--These things rarely go the way you think they will,” he says, because he knows. “Just when you think you have it figured out, something changes that you don’t expect.”

 

The man’s face contorts now, and he hesitates, holding Billy closer to the ledge before his eyes go dark with rage and he turns the gun at Michael--

 

Right before he’s hit from behind.

 

Casey strikes with the utmost efficiency, so it only takes one blow before the man crumples to the ground, gun clattering uselessly away. Michael springs forward, but he’s too far away to catch Billy before he hits the ground too, safely away from the ledge.

 

“Good timing,” Michael says, glancing toward Casey as the other man disarms the assailant and pulls out a zip tie. “Rick?”

 

“Security caught the goons before they had a chance to do much,” Casey explains. “It was a risk, but with half the hospital in the kid’s room, I thought you might need some help.”

 

Michael looks at the man -- and he looks younger now. His vacant features still retain a boyishness that Michael remembers. Michael thinks about a lot of consequences, but this isn’t one he’s considered. He’d been doing the right thing; extracting the boy had been the only option.

 

He hadn’t known, though.

 

He’d never predicted.

 

Standing again, Casey looks at Michael. “Billy?”

 

Michael turns his gaze downward again, rolling Billy gently onto his back. The livid bruises on his throat are still hard to see, but his pulse is easy to feel and his breath is warm against Michael’s hand.

 

And for the first time since this mission began, Michael feels the tension unfurl as he breathes out. “Drugged, it looks like,” he says, holding Billy in his lap. “But he’s okay, I think.”

 

He looks at the man; looks at Casey. He thinks about Rick and holds Billy closer.

 

“It’s all okay,” he murmurs, hoping that this time it’s actually true.

 

-o-

 

Consciousness is a fog, and Billy pulls through it slowly. The murkiness is vast, though, and Billy’s tired -- Billy’s _exhausted._ Normally he’s all for facing the challenges that come, but this time, he thinks he’d rather just go back to sleep.

 

Intent on such a venture, he moves to curl over onto his preferred sleeping position on his left but he doesn’t get very far. He moves again, to the right this time, but something is holding him back. He tosses, tugging a little, but nothing works. He’s stuck -- and the sudden realization brings him to full wakefulness with a start.

 

He gasps, the air passing harshly through his bruised throat. He flails -- or tries to -- but something is holding him -- his wrists and his ankles.

 

For a moment, Billy panics. He’s a spy, after all. Waking up groggy and restrained is never a good thing. And he’s hurt and he’s confused and there’s danger somehow and Billy’s rather tired of almost dying.

 

“Hey,” Michael’s voice cuts through the emotions, calm and steady. It’s calming and reassuring, but when Billy’s eyes settle on the other operative, he’s still more than a little confused.

 

“Wha’ happened?” he asks, wincing at the sound of his own voice, weak and gravelly.

 

Michael offers him a small smile back. He looks tired, with lines around his eyes and hair not quite tamed. “What do you remember?”

 

Billy might offer a quip in return, but the truth is, he’s just too tired. He blinks wearily, and even the simple act of thinking seems to be too much. The memories are scattered, and pieces of the mission and the safehouse start to come back. Mostly, though, he just remembers the feeling of waiting, like he’s been dangling on the end of a fraying rope, just waiting for the next moment to pass.

 

He swallows, his swollen throat reminding him of some of the rest.

 

“The safehouse was compromised,” he says, eyes on Michael again. “You got me help by putting me on a psych hold.”

 

Michael’s face is reserved, so Billy knows he’s missing a few pieces. “Anything after that?”

 

Billy frowns, thinking about his boring hours and the frustrating sessions with the psychiatrist. If Billy had wanted to be a well-adjusted, functioning adult, he would have faced his fears back in the UK. He’s been holding on too long to let go, except--

 

His eyes widen. “There was a man--”

 

There’s visible relief in Michael’s face -- and guilt. “Yeah, apparently he drugged you and took you to the roof,” he explains, sounding more than a little apologetic. “He wanted to throw you off the roof.”

 

Billy’s memory is fuzzy, but for some reason, this makes sense to him. “It was the same man,” he says suddenly, remembering the eyes. “He’d been across the street when the safehouse was stormed.”

 

Michael nods -- he already knows. “His name is Francis Laconte.”

 

The name is unfamiliar.

 

Michael sighs. “He was the son of Gerard Laconte,” he continues. “Someone I busted nearly ten years ago while working a mission here.”

 

Billy furrows his brow. “Revenge?”

 

With a rueful smile, Michael ducks his head. “Unfinished business, I guess,” he says. He clears his throat and looks back up, and his expression is stricken. “It’s my fault.”

 

Billy just chuckles. He’s too tired for guilt. Absolution is for those who want to lead blameless lives. “Spare me your apologies, mate,” he says. “I’m just grateful that I didn’t end up flattened on the ground. I think we can call it even.”

 

Michael looks hesitant, but he can’t deny it -- at least, he won’t.

 

Billy’s smile falls, and he looks at Michael earnestly. “Rick?”

 

“He’s fine,” Michael assures him. “At this rate, he’ll be out of here before you.”

 

Billy shook his head. “The drugs will wear off...”

 

“Yeah...about that...”

 

This mission has been one bad surprise after another, so Billy reckons his immediate trepidation is warranted.

 

Michael scratches the back of his neck. “By the time we got to you, they’d noticed you were missing,” he explains. “Plus with the amount of drugs in your system...and given we’d found you on the edge of the roof...”

 

Billy frowns, heart skipping a beat.

 

“Well they pumped your stomach and put you back up here,” he says. “Only this time, your stay is going to be a bit longer.”

 

Billy stares, the incredulity hard to articulate. “So that’s why I’m tied down?”

 

“They think you stole drugs and tried to jump off a building,” Michael replies. “Sort of the definition of a danger to yourself.”

 

The incredulity gives way to fear -- which immediately gives way to anger. He’s been here too long; he’s talked to the damned shrink too many times. He’s endured sympathy and analysis and boredom. “You let them _commit_ me?”

 

“I didn’t really have a lot of say in it,” Michael says.

 

“What am I suppose to do?” Billy asks, moving his arms in vain. “I swear on all that is good and holy, if you tell me to _hang in there--_ ”

 

It’s Michael’s turn to chuckle. “Nah,” he says, getting to his feet and reaching down to the restraints at Billy’s wrist. “I’ve had enough hanging around. You ready to get out of here?”

 

The first restraint comes loose, and Billy feels his panic lessen. He’s held on long enough -- and frankly, he’s not sure he’ll always be able to. But for all the faults of this mission, it has shown him one thing: even if he can’t hang on, even if he does let go, his team will be there to catch him.

 

The second restraint eases, and the third and the fourth.

 

His team will catch him every time. That may not make Billy an emotionally healthy individual, but it counts for something.

 

Grinning, he sits up. The world dims a little, but Michael is there, hand on his shoulder. “You ready?”

 

It counts for a lot.

 

Billy nods, taking a shaky breath as he found his leg. He wobbles, but Michael is there. “You better believe it.”

 

Michael shifts him closer. “I’ve got an exit, but it’s a little tricky,” he says. “You’ll want to hold on tight.”

 

Billy grunts. “Seems like I’ve got plenty of practice with that one.”

 

-o-

 

In the end, Michael finishes the mission -- more or less. Viljoen’s murder had never been part of the equation. It certainly did stymie the operation, and Michael has enough intel to provide hard identification of any remaining members of the organization. He doesn’t doubt they’ll get back in business, but it’ll take a while.

 

Which means Michael and his team will be back. It’ll be harder next time without Thomas’ perfect set up, but after all this, Michael still doesn’t like to leave loose ends.

 

Laconte is a bit of a problem, that much is certain. He knows who Michael is; he knows where the safehouse is. He’s ID’d every member of Michael’s team. It takes some work to go through Laconte’s things to destroy any evidence, but Michael thinks he can turn the man over for Thomas’ death without fear of exposing himself. After all, there’s concrete evidence of Laconte’s actions, and a sadistic murderer offering tales of CIA operatives will sound like desperate pleas to get a reduced sentence.

 

Michael would like to stay to make sure that’s how it goes, but he’s spent enough time here. He’s ready to take his team home.

 

They’d smuggled Billy out once the drugs had worn off, and Rick had been back at their new motel room a few days later. Now, rested and recovered, they’re ready to go home.

 

Except one last thing.

 

Rick sucks in a breath the moment they walk in the door. “Man, and I thought this place was depressing before.”

 

Michael is in front of him, looking over the barren walls of the safehouse. “Well, take a good look, then,” he advises. “We won’t be coming back.”

 

There’s a good chance Laconte’s identification of the safehouse will rot in prison with him, but since he’s known about it so long and since it has been compromised by multiple assailants, Michael can’t risk leaving it open. The CIA will officially give up their lease.

 

Casey fans out. “I assume you’ve already sterilized the place?” he asks.

 

Michael nods. “Mostly, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to do it again,” he says. “We’ll need to hit the apartment across the hall, too.”

 

Lingering in the doorway, Billy makes a face. “I volunteer to stand here and do nothing,” he says.

 

Casey glares at him. “Slacker.”

 

“I am recovering!” Billy insists. “I never got any discharge orders since I was sneaked out AMA--”

 

“Would you rather us take you back?” Michael asks.

 

“Ah,” Billy says, inching inward. “That would be most unfortunate--”

 

“See, you’re fine,” Casey says back. “Look at Rick -- he had a bullet pass through his body and he’s fine.”

 

Rick offers a pathetic smile from the table where he looks like he’s about to keel over even as he uses a cloth to wipe the surface.

 

“I was attacked and hanged in this very room,” Billy protests.

 

“Partially hanged, actually,” Michael clarifies. “They never got you off the ground.”

 

Billy’s brow creases in obvious distress. “What a lovely clarification.”

 

Michael moves along, remembering to look under the couch for the last of the homing devices planted. “I’m just pointing out that they didn’t finish the job,” he says.

 

“Not for a lack of trying,” Billy says, sulking a bit now as he uses his cloth and idly wipes at the naked light fixture. “Need I remind you of my _second_ encounter.”

 

Casey snorts. “We had to remind you,” he says. “You were so out of it that you peed yourself.”

 

Michael tries not to laugh, absently wondering if they should burn the couch cushions out back, just in case.

 

“Hey, what about this?” Rick’s voice interjects.

 

Michael looks up, and sees Rick standing at the wall. He’s looking at Billy’s poster, almost eye to eye with the fluffy kitten, the faded font still visible _Hang In There._

 

He moves toward Rick, looking at it with a small chuff. “If I’d known it was going to be so damn ironic, I wouldn’t have let you bring it,” he says, with a glance toward Billy.

 

Billy has crossed the room to look at it, too. “Trust me, if I’d known what was coming, I might not have tempted fate either,” he says. He pauses, cocking his head. “You have to admit, it was rather fitting, though.”

 

“You mean because you kept hanging until you almost died?” Casey asks pointedly.

 

Billy rolls his eyes. “Just that we survived,” he says. “Contrary to all the odds, against all the forces working against us -- we held on to the very bitter end. And we prevailed.”

 

He’s right. They did prevail. Michael’s not sure how; Michael’s not sure why. But they did. Because that’s what they do -- in life, in the field. On missions; as a team. Sometimes they’re as helpless as kittens, but they still get through together.

 

They’ll always get through together.

 

“You know,” Michael says, trying to sound indifferent. “We really can’t leave this here. It’s got Billy’s prints all over it. It’s a huge security risk.”

 

Billy grins knowingly at him. “Well, we certainly don’t want that.”

 

Rick turns back to look at them. “You know, since this was a crime scene, this might even be considered evidence,” he tells them. “We may need to keep it in the office, just in case we need to process it.”

 

Even Casey is next to them now, shaking his head. “Sentimentality is overrated.”

 

Michael raises his eyebrows. “You don’t think we should take it.”

 

“Of course we should take it,” Casey snaps. “This mission was a disaster. The only way to preempt the next disaster is to remind ourselves of this one.”

 

“It’s settled then,” Michael says, nodding toward the poster. “It comes with us.”

 

“For security,” Rick clarifies.

 

“For reference,” Casey adds.

 

“For _us,_ ” Billy concludes.

 

And Michael reaches up to pull out the pushpins, plucking them free and rolling the poster back up, leaving the wall blank and barren, like they’d never been here at all.


End file.
